BR2019UK
by mishkidda
Summary: 24 British students play the BR game. Chapter 15 up. One for probability geeks. 8 down, 16 to go.
1. 24

**Boys**

1 Stephan Andropoulos

2 Josh Bradshaw

3 Dave Brunning

4 Will Dalton

5 James Dyer

6 Alex Green

7 Mahmoud Ibrahim

8 James Lewis

9 Sami Modha

10 Jack Trull

11 Joe Wright

12 Paul Yates

**Girls**

1 Alicia Brown

2 Abigail Dawson

3 Shabina Ghazali

4 Nina Haczynski

5 Emma Litchfield

6 Erin Lynch

7 Lauren Norris

8 Sophie Orr

9 Zoe Peacock

10 Natalie Rankin

11 Katie Robinson

12 Bethany Tupper

0 dead, 24 remain...

-

PROLOGUE

-

The old video tape was almost worn out from repeated use; the sound and picture were completely garbled in some parts, but even so, he was watching it again. He held down the fast-forward button until he got to the bit he wanted, then let it play. Lines of static danced across the screen, then the scene he liked the best appeared. Jerky camerawork as the crew manoeuvred their way through the tightly-packed soldiers and armed guards. The air was thick with the din of helicopters. Transporting the winner to the mainland from the island was a major operation, as she'd probably killed more people than any of the soldiers present and was considered a major security risk until she had passed through the normalisation process.

The camera finally managed to push through to the front line. Richie Stuart, the oily presenter, was chattering excitedly about what a fine game it had been, but the boy watching the tape was not interested in any of the peripheral stuff. He wanted to know what a winner looked like.

She didn't look like much. A gangplank was thrown down and she was led onto the dock, a small girl with short fair hair hanging over her face, her hands folded behind her back. She was surrounded by a detail of armed men to keep the reporters back. Richie Stuart hurried forward and, flashing his ID, was allowed through. He was the presenter of the Program, had been working non-stop for three days while the battle raged, and now it was over, it was his personal privilege to be able to interview the winner.

"Hello, hello!" he called. "Anna! Over here. Tell us how it was."

Anna stared at the camera blankly. She might have been pretty at the start of the game. She still didn't look too bad, if you ignored the chunk of hair missing from the left side of her head and the dried blood spattered across her chin and mouth, a souvenir from her final kill, which had been rather messy.

Anna's game had been magnificent. She had teamed up with her very best friend in the world, swearing she'd never play _this _game, and within half an hour she was walking away from the lifeless body of said friend with blood on her hands and a shiny new gun in her daypack. Then, she had been alone for almost two days without batting an eyelid, cool as a cucumber. After that she came down from her hiding-place and killed everyone she met, seven in total, until she was the last one standing. Not bad for the diminutive Girl 5, fifteen years of age, issued with a switchblade as her starting weapon. There had been some stiff competition, but she'd handled herself very well.

"It was all right," Anna said. That was all she could manage before the soldiers pushed forward and hustled her into the back of a van.

The boy stopped the tape and leaned back, resting the back of his neck in his palms. "It was all right." "I've been on better school trips." "I don't like Mondays." That was how winners talked. His facial expression shifted, consciously mimicking Anna's cool, vacant appearance, opening his eyes wide, like hers had been.

That was what winners looked like. He knew he'd look the same some day, if they'd only give him the chance.

-

PART ONE

-

"...comply within one hundred and thirty seconds."

Consciousness returned. He raised his head and looked around muzzily, at first not understanding. The room was different. Everything was different. Then he reached up to touch his neck and felt a cold metal band.

_Ah. _Now everything slotted into place.

The mechanised voice repeated its instruction. "Please sit in the seat with your name on it. Comply within one hundred seconds."

The class stared dumbly at the speaker, blinking in the glare of the harsh lighting. Their drugged minds were not processing the information. Then Alicia Brown (Girl 1) got to her feet and went to her seat at the front of the room. When she sat down, the chair beeped and a green LED light came on.

Erin Lynch (Girl 6), Emma Litchfield (Girl 5) and James Lewis (Boy 8) followed her example. More green lights came on. The rest of the class began to mutter amongst themselves.

"Please sit on the seat with your name on it. Warning: you are wearing Generation 4 PESR necklaces. Failure to follow instructions will result in their activation. Comply within 60 seconds."

Personal Electronic Surveillance and Restraint collars? That was something they all knew about, and it was not a good sign.

Everyone rushed to their seats immediately.

"Shit." That was Abigail Dawson (Girl 2), standing up again. "Left my bag..."

An amber light came on on the side of Abigail's chair. "Girl 2, Abigail Dawson, return to your seat, or collar activation in 10 – 9 – 8..."

Abigail sat down rapidly.

"Shit," repeated Josh Bradshaw (Boy 2), trying to create as much space between the collar and his neck as possible.

"What _is_ this?" Natalie Rankin (Girl 10) was the first to speak up. "What's going on?"

"I don't know. Where's Mr. Atkinson?" said Zoe Peacock (Girl 9), who sat in front of her.

"We were watching that film…" said Natalie. It wasn't unusual for the odd student to doze off during yet _another_ patriotic film, but the whole class keeled over like drunks at a free whisky festival? Natalie had a vague recollection of that. Her last memory was seeing her seating partner Shabina Ghazali (Girl 3) slumped across the desk – conscientious Shabina who would never fall asleep in class – and realising that something was wrong.

She turned to her current seating partner, Jack Trull (Boy 10). "We're not in the school any more," she said. "I wonder where we are."

"I've no idea," said Jack.

"They drugged us?" Joe Wright (Boy 11) wanted to know. "The film – is that the last thing everyone remembers?"

It was. No-one could recall how they had got to... wherever it was they were now.

"The youth units?" suggested Mahmoud Ibrahim (Boy 7). "I thought they stopped doing that."

He was referring to a wartime law that enabled the government to conscript young layabouts into the forces by use of the collars. Nobody knew how many of them died, either by disobeying and having their collars activated or being killed in battle, but the youth units were generally considered the scum of society and expendable. The scheme was only meant to be temporary, but like many other 'temporary' expansions of state power under the dictatorship, it never seemed to have been withdrawn.

Lauren Norris (Girl 7) jammed her hand in her mouth and began biting her nails.

"No, it can't be – not us. We're students," called out Will Dalton (Boy 4). "We're exempt!"

"No," said Shabina Ghazali (Girl 3). There was so much dread in her voice that Alicia and Abigail turned round to look at her, although she only spoke quietly. "It's the Program," said Shabina. "Look how we've been seated."

She was right. The class had an even gender split and was lined up by number, Girls 1-12 sitting beside Boys 1-12. An even match of 24 contestants. And then there were the exploding collars. A lower class of restraint that merely delivered a painful electric shock was more commonly used as a coercive aid these days.

"Oh fuck," breathed Abigail.

"It's the fucking Program!" yelled Stephan Andropoulos (Boy 1), for the benefit of those that hadn't heard.

Panic broke out in the room. Everyone was talking at once, some left their seats altogether. With a wail of fear, James Lewis launched himself at the doors and pounded them with his fists. The wasplike voice from the speaker warned him, then began to count down. At 4, Alicia leapt from her own seat and pulled him back, making him sit down before his beeping collar detonated. "No," she ordered, "Don't fight it now. Fight it later. Don't give them the satisfaction."

James Dyer (Boy 5) and Dave Brunning (Boy 3) made a joint attempt to smash the window by swinging James's sports bag at it. Made of thick Perspex and lined with mesh, it would not shatter. Both boys had to dash back to their seats.

There was nothing to be done. Josh Bradshaw (Boy 2) lobbed a drinks can at the screen and cried, "Fuck the government! Fuck them all!"

"Shut it, Josh! Is that helping anyone?" Alicia shouted at him. She didn't like him, with his unnecessary blue hair and facile political views. Most people grew out of anarchy and came to the conclusion that there are those who are obeyed and those who obey. Josh never had.

He was about to reply to the smug Christian Union president and self-elected group leader, when the screen flickered into life.

"Welcome to the Program!" said a man's voice, a vaudevillian showman's voice, as if unveiling the central attraction at the circus. It was Richie Stuart, celebrated TV presenter, game show host and, as of last year, co-ordinator general of the Program.

"Fuck... it's really real..." muttered James Dyer (Boy 5) to his best friend Dave Brunning (Boy 3). There was no pretending it wasn't happening now.

The TV host clapped his hands and grinned broadly. "As you see, we've moved to an automatic administration, so I'm afraid you won't be able to ask any questions. I will tell you everything you need to know in this short video, so pay attention. If you don't already know what the Program is, listen closely."

Richie Stuart outlined the basic principles of the game, telling the class that they numbered twenty-four at present, but there could only be one winner, and this situation would arise when everyone else was dead. Richie explained that they were on an island, a small insignificant lump of rock off Scotland, once the summer residence of some earl or other, that then fell into disuse, and was finally abandoned. It wasn't a large island, with only a small harbour where the fishing-boats used to come in and a few tumbledown houses, briefly used for stockpiling food and munitions during the war. "Look out for hidden goodies left by the army," Stuart advised the stunned class.

An aerial view of the island showed a central high point, then dense woodland in the north, a short and fat lighthouse jutting into the sea, then flat lands that might once have been cultivated, open and exposed until the steep cliffs on the south coast of the island.

"Every six hours, three zones on your map will become dangerous to those of you wearing collars – that, I believe, is all of you. I'll read out the times and locations on an announcement broadcast every six hours, along with the names of any classmates killed in action during that time. I can do this a maximum of eleven times, because the game ends at midnight of the third day. If we have no winner by this point, all the collars will be detonated."

"I've seen this before," whispered Erin Lynch (Girl 6) to the boy next to her. "A few years back, where that girl won it – I think it's the same island!"

"D'ya mean when Anna won it?" Alex Green (Boy 6) said. Neither of them actually watched the Program, having seen a highlights broadcast at most, but most people had a vague idea of past winners, if not the circumstances of their victory. They were now wishing they'd paid more attention to the bloodiest annual state TV show.

The simple truth of it was that the Program wasn't good TV. Usually you'd flick it on and there'd be nothing but tedious aerial shots of forest, or a deserted inner city, or an island shore – or, if you were really lucky, a contestant caught on camera playing the game. But shootouts were over in seconds, and interesting encounters were sparse. Watching some unlucky school kid wandering through the landscape trying to kill people with a boomerang was not exactly riveting. There were better game shows. Even if the Program was a once-yearly treat, good citizens could still watch the news, with its lurid war coverage, often more violent and interesting. Or _Female Socialist Wrestling Heroes_, state-sanctioned and always popular.

They remembered Anna, though. Anna had been pretty famous for a while. After her surprise victory, there was a brief marketing frenzy. Over the following six months they wheeled her out to advertise certain products, had her open a few cooperative supermarkets, but then she stopped making public appearances. She must be in her twenties by now, Alex thought, if she's alive. He thought that probably wasn't likely.

"The game will begin promptly at 00:00," Richie Stuart was saying, "so pay attention and be ready. I will call your names out in order. Boy 1, Girl 1, Boy 2 and so forth. Outside the door, there's a rack with bags waiting for you. Take only the one with your name on it or the collars will be activated. One of you will be released every two minutes, so don't hang around by the school building, best to make tracks. The last student will be released at 00:48, and I'm making the grid square containing this building a danger zone at one-thirty, so make sure you're out of it by then. I'll speak to you again at 06:00. Are we ready? All right, let's begin."

There was a beep from the screen, and a voice that wasn't Richie Stuart's began to read out the names.

"Boys #1, Stephan Andropoulos."

Stephan had been expecting to be called first. The shock was hearing his name read in his teacher's voice, in the same tone he'd used to read the register every morning for the past five years. Mr. Atkinson was involved in the Program too?

"I think he means you have to go and get your bag," said Dave Brunning (Boy 3), leaning forwards to nudge Stephan. "Good luck, mate."

"Okay." He stood up gingerly. The green light on his chair stayed on.

"Fuck. FUCK," he said to himself, and almost stumbled over his feet as he went for the door. They heard his footsteps in the corridor, then nothing. Stephan was gone. It was exactly 00:00 on May 1st, and the game had begun.


	2. Game On

Alex Green (Boy 6) watched as, one by one, his friends were called.

"Boys #3, Dave Brunning," said Mr. Atkinson's toneless voice. Dave obediently got up and trudged out.

"Girls #3, Shabina Ghazali."

The cleverest student in the class grabbed her bag and hurried off, looking distressed. In the two minutes between names being called, Mahmoud (Boy 7) spoke up.

"None of us _are _playing, right?" he said.

There was relieved, nervous laughter. Of course, nobody was. How could any of them think of killing their classmates?

"Boys #4, Will Dalton," said the teacher.

Will stood up. "See you outside, then?" he said hopefully, then took off at a jog, tossing his bag over his shoulder. Nina Haczynski (Girl 4) went next, also running, looking scared out of her wits.

The thought occurred to Alex that some of them could already be dead. There were eight students out there now, alone in the dark – or maybe not alone - and armed. He was beginning to finally grasp the situation.

What if someone _was _playing? He trusted everyone in the room implicitly, classmates and friends all of them, since he transferred into the group three years ago. He'd been in the group long enough to have a fair idea of most of the personalities in the class, but what he'd never seen is how each one of them would react to extreme mental pressure. Being on the Program was terrifying. If it wasn't the constant fear and the lack of food and sleep, it was the cameras. Some people didn't cope well with being watched all the time. Being stared at by millions of viewers did not help the paranoia. If you got scared enough, it wouldn't be hard to equate playing with staying alive.

"Boys #5, James Dyer."

Alex thought of the consequences of a strong, athletic guy like James getting paranoid, hurting someone...

Then, his strategy came to him. At first, he'd planned to team up with whoever he could, try and think a way out of the Program. He was sure it could be done, there were some good thinkers in the class. But to do that denied any responsibility to the people who couldn't find groups, who got lost alone in the woods, who hid and waited and would eventually become players.

_No_, thought Alex. _Not my friends_. _Not even the people I don't know well._

Emma Litchfield (Girl 5) was called. He heard Erin Lynch (Girl 6) whisper to her, "Wait for me, I'll meet you outside."

Would lifelong friends like Erin and Emma eventually turn on each other?

120 seconds until Alex was called. He realised what he had to do.

"Guys," he called out, "we can't get separated and spread out all over the island. That's what they _want_ us to do. I had this idea... let's all meet on top of the mountain in the centre of the map, twelve noon tomorrow – you just turn up, I'll go looking for the ones who have already gone to tell them."

"That's a really good idea," said Natalie Rankin (Girl 10). Her warm approval made Alex feel a bit embarrassed, but gave him confidence. She was the student council representative, a born leader if there ever was one, and having her on board would definitely improve their chances of recruiting others.

"Yeah," said Mahmoud Ibrahim (Boy 7). "Count me in." There were positive noises from some of the others.

"Twelve tomorrow?" said Sophie Orr (Girl 8), a note of doubt in her voice. "Do you want to wait that long?"

"Maybe you shouldn't go alone," Sami Modha (Boy 9) suggested. "I'm not saying anyone is playing, of course."

Alex shook his head. "No-one is. It'll be fine - I don't want to wait around. I'll need time to find everyone. But nothing's going to happen to anyone overnight. We've got to trust each other."

"He's got a point," said Natalie. "Okay. Twelve noon tomorrow." She was even smiling. "Don't be late!"

"I promise," said Alex. As an afterthought, he scribbled down his mobile number and passed it to Natalie. "Don't know if it'll work, but... worth a try."

Then he was called.

"I'll see you all tomorrow," he promised, and left the room.

Outside the classroom was a long corridor. At the end, he could see darkness, and the shapes of trees, through an open door. In front of him was a rack with large backpacks on it, all khaki green and with the students' names in white ink. His own didn't look very full. Some of the bags were bulging, and looked to contain oddly-shaped items.

Alex shouldered his own, and cautiously advanced towards the door.

_If I don't trust them_, he thought, _they're never going to trust me. I have to have faith in them._

A cool wind whistled through his hair as he stepped out into the open. Before him lay what had once been the school playground. The swings rocked gently in the breeze, with a slight creaking of unoiled chains.

There was no-one there. Everyone who had been called before him had decided not to wait. Alex looked around for a moment to get his bearings, seeing the small village laid out to the south, with the glimmer of sea beyond it. _Of course. _Anyone with half a brain would have gone there, found a safehouse to pass the night. The thick forest in front of him didn't look like a good option. It was so dark you could walk five metres into it and not be able to find your way back. No-one with any sense would have decided to hide out in there, and there was no point going in himself in the middle of the night. He unzipped his bag and grabbed a torch, a map and his weapon.

A knife. The sort of knife rugged movie heroes used to hack through thick vegetation or pick their teeth. Nicely crafted, a good weight in the hand. It'd do to slice bread, he thought, and dropped it back in the bag.

Then, he heard Mr Atkinson's recorded voice, muffled and dim, from inside the school. "Girls #6, Erin Lynch."

He realised that if he were still waiting by the door when Erin came out, she might think he was waiting for her. Either she'd be frightened and think he was lying in wait, or (worse) she'd work out that he liked her, that he'd thought she was cute and witty for quite some time now, and take offence at the idea that he wanted to protect her. He hurried off into the shadows. A path ran down from the low hill where the school was, which seemed to correspond with the quickest way into the residential zone marked on the maps. Alex turned his back on the school and vanished into the night.

_Be safe, Erin, _he thought. _I'll find you_.

Erin came out of the school a moment later, carrying a backpack that looked too large for her and bulged oddly at the side. She had her torch in her hand, which she flashed around before venturing out. She too found the playground area deserted and for a moment looked lost, squinting into the darkness. Perhaps something out there caught her eye.

Erin turned, seemingly without fear, and walked straight into the dark wood.

-

The front half of the room was now empty, with only five boys and five girls remaining.

"Boys #8, James Lewis."

Alicia's friend from the Christian Union rose slowly. He _couldn't _do this, not alone. Many people together are strong, but one by himself didn't stand much of a chance. Unlike Alex, he didn't think that everyone in the class was to be implicitly trusted. He was certain that some of them would play the game – boys like James Dyer, one of the more popular ones, fast and strong and with little interest in those less physically gifted than himself. Then there was muscular, sullen Jack Trull, who never said anything at all. On top of that was the unpalatable thought of being killed by a girl. He couldn't bear the shame. But girls sometimes won, and apart from Alicia and her friends, he didn't trust the girls in his class. Abigail Dawson (Girl 2), for instance – Abigail who had a boyfriend with a motorbike and hung about in the park drinking cider. He'd seen her friends, multiple-pierced, tattooed horrors who looked dirty and potentially violent. He had always been a little afraid of her. She'd left the room at a run – couldn't wait to get started? And then there was athletic Zoe Peacock (Girl 9), sitting behind him, drumming her fingers on the desk. They weren't _nice _girls. He'd heard the sort of things they talked about. They could be dangerous, out there in the dark where there were no rules but the rules of the game; no morals, no honesty, just the game.

James left the room at a casual pace, to show he was not afraid. Alone in the corridor, he was suddenly gripped by mortal terror. He tore his bag from the rack and fled, running as fast as he could into the night. They wouldn't get him if he ran. They _couldn't _get him.

In the classroom, now mostly empty, Natalie turned round to talk to Bethany Tupper (Girl 12) so she didn't feel excluded.

"You've got to go last then?" she said.

"Yes," said Bethany.

"You'll be fine. You can trust any of them, we're all friends." Natalie, probably the most popular girl in the class, could claim friendship with most of them, and as for the others, she didn't have ill-will towards them and was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

"None of us are secret homicidal maniacs," said Zoe, with a smile.

"You're right," said Bethany. Her eyes were slightly glazed. Natalie took it for an after-effect of the drug. She didn't know Bethany too well, but thought that perhaps she was shy, having joined the class when all the friendship groups had already formed.

One by one, the last ones were sent out. Jack Trull, probably the fastest of all of them out of the school. Natalie, waving and promising to see them all tomorrow, if not before. Joe Wright, dejected, slunk out with his head down, then Katie Robinson, who looked much younger than her years with her chunky child's haircut. Paul Yates took the time to put on his winter coat before leaving. Then the room was almost empty. Bethany Tupper was the last one.

She stared at the screen when her name was called, as if uncomprehending.

"Go on, Bethany," said Mr. Atkinson's voice. "You have to leave the zone before one-thirty."

She stood up and wandered out, leaving the doors open behind her. Around the island, the speaker system thundered out the first announcement: "00:48 – the game begins. Vacate zone E6 promptly."

-

In a tightly-guarded military compound several hundred miles away, Mr. Atkinson put down his microphone. He looked with tired eyes to the soldier waiting at his side.

"I've done my part," he said. "Now can I go home to my family?"

"Certainly. The car is waiting."

He said nothing. The commander turned back to his observation screen as Atkinson was escorted out by a detail of men. Outside, it was a cold, dank night, with curtains of rain falling across the compound, illuminated by the raw light of the floodlights. The Atlantic front was rolling in across the country, bringing the heavy rain that was estimated to hit the island in twenty-four hours, and was pouring over London now. Atkinson pulled his thin coat around him walked towards the headlights, blinking away the water in his eyes.

"Bastards, you bastards..." he muttered, before ducking into the back seat of the car. He put his head in his hands and thought of the kids he'd devoted the past five years to, the futures they'd never have.

At home, he sat down and switched on the Program, and watched. Like millions of others, he would sit and watch as, one by one, the unremarkable class of sixteen-year-olds was whittled down to a singularity.

0 dead, 24 remaining...


	3. Night

"We've got contact," said Anna.

Richie Stuart came out of the bathroom, his hair slicked back and a towel around his waist. "Who is it?"

"Girl 4 and Boy 7." Unwillingly, she moved along the bed a little to accommodate him. Richie tossed the towel aside. "Four and seven? Who are they, then?"

"Nina Haczynski and Mahmoud Ibrahim."

Richie squeezed her. "Aren't you good with the names? You could do my job. Relaunch that career of yours. Although," he said, flipping her over, prodding, pushing, "I like you just the way you are right now..."

Anna sighed. With him doing this to her, it was difficult to see the screen. The highly light-sensitive cameras picked up the two figures moving in the night, the girl and the boy moving into K6, the southernmost grid square covered by land. While Richie climbed on top of her, making the whole bed shake, Anna stared at the screen unblinkingly, watching events unfold as they often did.

-

It was still night. Below the cliff, the sea crashed against the rocks in the dark. Mahmoud's digital watch flashed. The time was a little after twenty past one.

"Looks like we had the same sort of idea," he said to his companion.

"I'm glad I found someone," she said. The girl had her hood pulled up, but he'd recognised her by her round, pretty face, and the painstakingly-straightened blonde hair that fell around her cheeks. Her name was Nina. He didn't know her too well, but in a situation like this, anyone was a friend.

"I'm glad too," said Mahmoud. They sat down on an exposed rock, dropping their backpacks in front of them. Nina turned her torch off. It wasn't too dark now her eyes had got used to it. There was the light of the stars and a sickle moon. It was enough to spot anyone approaching, anyway.

"Have you looked in your bag yet?" she asked.

He handed it to her. "You have a look for me."

Nina held her torch in her mouth and rummaged around in Mahmoud's bag. "Mh... oh," she said, pulling an icepick out of the bottom of the rucksack. She took the torch in her hand to examine it more closely. "Is this it?"

"That's my weapon?" Mahmoud looked at it sideways. "What is it?"

"No idea. Looks like a bit of dentist's kit."

Mahmoud laughed. "What kind of dentist have you been going to?" He dropped it back into the bag, then sat down and took a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket.

"Smoke?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Nina had been trying to give up. It wrinkled the skin and she'd been noticing herself being a bit shorter of breath lately as she swam the 200 metres. Now, it hardly seemed to matter. She took a cigarette and lit up. Mahmoud blew out a thin stream of smoke, gazing off into the distance. If someone'd told him what was going to happen to him this morning, that he'd have three days to live and be smoking with Nina Haczynski on a Hebridean island, he wouldn't have believed them.

"We're on live TV right now, you know," Nina said. She gave a wan little wave at the cameras.

Mahmoud said, "Wonder how many people are watching us." He didn't like the idea.

"My mum and dad..." Nina looked down, blowing out smoke. "I'm never going to see them again, am I?"

"Don't talk like that. We'll be all right," he said. To distract her, he said, "What have you got in your bag?"

"I don't know yet. Haven't looked." Nina reached a hand down into the backpack with an expression on her face as if she was trying to pick up a live tarantula.

She pulled out a thick roll of dark blue fabric, fastened around the middle by a buckle.

"What's this?"

Nina undid the fastening and the material unrolled itself in her lap. It was a thickly-padded vest. In the middle of it was a crumpled piece of paper.

Mahmoud flicked his torch on. "Read it," he urged.

Nina read out loud. "Offers superb protection against all handguns up to a .44 magnum. One size fits all. What the fuck? Where's my weapon?"

Mahmoud picked the vest up, examining it. "I think that is your weapon..."

-

The lighthouse was long-dead, and the only light over the northern shore of the island came from the thin moon. Stephan Andropoulos (Boy 1) had chosen a hollow in the cliffs for his shelter, which served to conceal him from view. He drifted in and out of sleep, woken periodically by the cold, the sound of the sea and the revolver pressing against his hand.

He must have slept again, as he thought it highly unlikely that a red-lipped blonde would have had her wicked way with him and then strode off, her lacy undergarments over her shoulder, her stilettoed feet crunching on the gravel beach. He woke alone and annoyed, and aroused, which was the worst part. On live TV as well. _Control yourself,_ he thought firmly. _Bad enough that you thought of this as an excuse to get back with Zoe, or maybe Natalie. People might be dying out there and you're thinking about your…_

Suddenly he stiffened. The footsteps were real. Someone was on the beach. Stephan pulled his feet back so he was completely out of view and peered out of the cave, gun in hand. He was shaking. He didn't want to kill someone, but it seemed like he was about to be attacked.

Then Joe Wright (Boy 12) came onto the beach. Stephan steadied a little. Joe appeared to be unarmed, and physically posed little threat. He was probably doing just the same as Stephan, looking for a safe place to spend the night. There was certainly room for the two of them on the beach, and Joe seemed to be going in the other direction, not towards Stephan's cave. Stephan watched him for a while. He seemed calm, not the paranoid wreck he himself was turning into.

Joe looked up at the sky. Then, he dropped his schoolbag and the issued backpack containing his weapon. He knelt on the beach and began to pick up large stones.

Stephan lowered his revolver. _What's he doing? _he thought, being sure that it was impossible to build a shelter out of beach pebbles.

Joe began to shove the stones carelessly into his coat pockets. Some fell out, but he carried on until they were stuffed. He tested the weight, then walked forward into the sea. There was a steep shelf where the beach receded into the deeper water. Joe was suddenly in chest-deep. He breathed out, then let himself fall forward. With the weight of the stones, he went straight to the bottom.

Stephan belatedly realised what was happening. _Shit, _he thought, and threw his gun aside as he ran down the beach towards the sea. He waded in and almost fell on the shelf himself, but managed to keep his balance. He plunged his upper body into the water, grasping around for Joe. On the third dive his fingers closed around fabric. He dragged Joe to the surface – not easy, as the boy was soaked and his pockets full of stones. Joe was coughing and spluttering, and had to be almost dragged back to the beach. Stephan dropped him just beyond the waterline, then threw himself down on the beach at his side.

When he had his breath back, Stephan said, "What the hell?"

"Stephan?" Joe recognised him. Then he said flatly, "You should have left me. I'd rather die than play this game."

"No you wouldn't. Not really." Stephan loved being alive far too much to have let any such thought even enter his head. "If you kill yourself, you definitely die. In the game... you know the odds aren't great, but at least you have a chance."

"So you'd do it, then? You'd murder people just to save your own life?" Water ran from Joe's curly hair and coursed down his neck. He shook off his sodden jacket. "It's the only way out. I can't play..."

"I'm not going to kill anyone," said Stephan. "Just going to try to survive. I'll defend myself if I have to, but I won't attack." He got up to retrieve his dropped gun, and Joe's abandoned backpack. "What weapon did you get?"

"In there," said Joe, indicating his bag. He sniffed.

Stephan took out a taser. "This?"

"Yeah. Electroshock gun. Don't set it off, you're all wet."

"I got a real gun," said Stephan. "I've read the manual and I know how it works. How about this: if it turns out we are all going to die and there really is no chance, we shoot ourselves together, like men. But we give it a go, try to find other people, try to find a way off the island, before we start going all fucking emo and trying to drown ourselves. We got here somehow, we can get off the same way. Okay?"

"Okay," said Joe.

"That means," said Stephan, wringing out the sleeves of his soaked jumper, "that you're with me now. You can stop me getting too paranoid." Stephan decided not to tell him that he'd been planning to shoot whoever approached his lair.

"Okay."

"My cave is this way." Stephan pulled the unresponsive Joe along with him. "Wish I had a spare t-shirt. I'm all fucking wet and it's freezing."

-

He ran. A twenty-minute mile wasn't anything to be proud of, but he was staying alert, checking for danger as he went. He'd have to sacrifice a bit of speed for caution if he intended to get through this.

Will Dalton (Boy 4) had got as far from the school as possible in the direction he considered least appealing, so he wouldn't run into anyone. Or maybe they'd double-bluff and all come that way. He wasn't sure, but he had to decide, and he decided to head south. He had crossed a small stream, marking it on his map for later use, and then found a stop point in what had once been an apple orchard on the outskirts of the village. Only then, when he was certain he was not observed, did he risk switching his torch on. He took his weapon – an antique Luger pistol - from his bag and read the instruction manual thoroughly, three times, cover to cover. Then, for practice, he loaded the gun and fired a shot into the air. It was incredibly loud.

Will turned off his torch and ran south, gun in hand. The stop had taken about twenty minutes. Ten more students had been released. Some of them could be ahead of him. He was so focused on his immediate surroundings that it was something of a surprise when the forest thinned out and he was in an open area. A few hundred metres away, the land fell away sharply and there was the sound of the sea pounding the cliffs below. And there were two figures there, dim shapes in the dark, sitting together on a rock and smoking.

"You weren't going to go to uni?" Nina was saying. They had fresh cigarettes and Nina had provided a bottle of fruit squash, although they'd both have preferred something stronger.

"No, I don't see the point," said Mahmoud. "Takes you too long to make up all the earnings you miss out on. And I don't want to work for the government after. I'd rather just get a job."

"Maybe I won't go to uni either," said Nina. "Before this, I was sure I would, but now... you know, it teaches you the value of being alive. If I get out of this I want to have some experiences, not just waste all my time studying. Maybe go travelling – maybe stay there. This country is fucked up."

_Now was the time. _Will flicked his torch on and waved it above his head, then turned it onto his face.

"Hello?" he called. "It's me, Will. I'm not playing."

"Oh fuck, he scared me," muttered Nina. Mahmoud waved him closer.

"Will? You're not playing?" he said.

"That's what I said," said Will, and he smiled. "Threw my weapon away. I wouldn't know what to do with it anyway. Can I join you?"

"Sure, of course you can," said Mahmoud. "You're welcome."

"Looks like we all had the same idea," said Nina.

"Yeah, looks like we did." Will was smiling too much. "I'm just glad I found some sane people, you know? I heard a gunshot not far from the school... I was shitting myself. Seriously. Did you get good weapons?"

"Take a look," said Mahmoud, handing over the icepick. Will turned it between his fingers, puzzled.

"O-kayyy then?" he said, and laughed. "What's yours, Nina?"

She held up the bulletproof vest. "Didn't even get a weapon," she said. "Not that your screwdriver thingy is that useful."

The camera technicians on the mainland had soundlessly realigned one of the many cameras on poles to get a better shot at their faces, lit by Mahmoud's torch and the glowing cigarette ends. At present, most of the technicians were focusing on creating good footage of Stephan and Joe and their hi-jinks in the sea off the far northern tip of the island. Nina, Mahmoud and Will's inconsequential conversation was not of much interest to them.

Then suddenly it became very interesting indeed.

Without warning, Will lashed out with the icepick, tearing Nina's neck. The blood _sprayed_, such was the pressure in the carotid artery, and it covered Will's face, arm and chest. He staggered back, making a sound of revulsion. Clutching her neck and screaming, Nina fell backwards, the blood still spraying from between her fingers.

"Oh fuck!"

Mahmoud threw his cigarette and ran at Will, swinging a punch at him. Will dodged and it was only a glancing blow off his cheek. Mahmoud had never been more terrified in his life, and as he grappled with Will, rolling down a bank with him, he realised that Will was a lot stronger than he thought. Finally, with a strength borne through absolute fear, he managed to land a hard kick in Will's stomach and shake him off. The icepick flew from Will's hand as he rolled, gasping. Mahmoud was running for his life.

Will got to his feet, wincing. He didn't have to chase Mahmoud. Drawing the Luger pistol concealed in his belt, he fired twice. Both shots hit Mahmoud square in the back, and by the holes they made in his front, he wasn't getting up again. His fingers tore at the ground, trying to get purchase, stand and flee, but soon his vision faded and the desperate hands went limp.

Will turned when he was sure Mahmoud was dead, then walked back to where Nina was. The blood flow had slowed. She lay twitching in her death throes, her breathing fast and frightened. Will removed the bulletproof jacket from her unresisting hands and pulled it on over his head, fastening the straps snugly. He had thought an ally or two would be acceptable to protect him from bullets, but this was even better.

He opened the two stricken students' bags and took their food and water, as well as a backup pen and compass, just in case. Then, as an afterthought, he retrieved the icepick and thrust it into the centre of Nina's throat. There was a gurgle, her eyes opened very wide, and the twitching stopped.

Will wiped his face. He wasn't too happy that he had used the gun – he could have chased the boy with the icepick, it would have been quieter – but he'd allotted himself two shots for the first two kills, so he was still on target. And covered in blood. Quietly, he retraced his steps into the dark woods, planning to clean himself at the stream.

-

2 dead, 22 remain.

-

Katie Robinson (Girl 11) heard the gunshots and covered her mouth to prevent any frightened sounds coming out. _Oh my God,_ she thought, _I've just heard someone being killed_. She pressed her small body tighter to the bark of the tree and sobbed as quietly as she could.

Bethany Tupper (Girl 12) had taken the same route out of the school as Katie, but she was wandering aimlessly and had happened to end up in the same place only by chance. She knew she was supposed to get out of the danger zone near the school, so she had walked away from the school. It hadn't occurred to her to look at her compass until now. The needle whirred and spun, settling on three different directions depending on how she held it. She didn't know a lot about compasses, but she suspected it was broken.

That was inconvenient.

Bethany sat down and took out her weapon from her bag. It was some sort of machine gun, ugly and dark-coloured, but when she pulled the trigger, it didn't fire. She had just about given up trying to puzzle this out when a bottle cap sailed through the air and landed at her feet.

Bethany looked up, puzzled. Katie Robinson was perched on a branch in the tree above her, holding her open water bottle and looking absolutely terrified. She'd tried to be quiet, but the lid had slipped through her fingers. Now...

Bethany stood up, leaving the gun where it lay. She stood beneath the tree and gave a little wave.

"Hi," said Bethany. "You're Katie, right?"

_Of course. Bethany isn't playing. Why would she be? _Katie realised how silly she'd been. Bethany was new in the class – well, not that new, but she still didn't really seem like part of the group – and she'd taken her shyness for aloofness. She was sophisticated and pretty, far more so than Katie, who hadn't really changed since she started the school aged eleven. She could even still climb trees. But Bethany must be just as scared as she was. She couldn't be a threat.

Relief flooded through Katie's cold, aching limbs. She'd been crouched up the tree for too long, trying to decide what she was going to do.

"I'm so glad... so glad it's you." Katie swung herself down from the tree branch, landing lightly in front of Bethany. "Sorry I didn't come out sooner," she said, almost laughing at her own foolishness. "I wasn't sure who it was."

"My gun doesn't work," said Bethany. "Neither does my compass."

"Oh," said Katie. "Let me have a look... maybe there's instructions with it."

"Instructions? What do you mean?"

Katie smiled and took a slip of paper from her shirt pocket. "My weapon's a boomerang. It came with this. Tells me which end to hold it, if you can believe it. Let's see yours." She looked through Bethany's bag and finally came across what she was searching for, a small square booklet.

"Uzi 9mm, user's manual," she read. "Look at the diagram, you put the clip in like this... then you cock it... there you go. It should work now. You can fire single bullets or, you know, rat-a-tat-tat." Katie offered Bethany the gun. "There, it's yours. You've got the best weapon in the game, you know. I'll be extra-safe with you!"

Bethany took the gun from Katie's hands. "It works now?" she said.

"I hope so," said Katie. And Bethany pulled the trigger, effectively ending the conversation there.

The first shot hit the upper right hand side of her chest. Bethany sprayed Katie's body with bullets, right across her torso so that the final one lodged in her hip. It wasn't ra-ta-tat-tat, more like ra-thuk-ta-thuk as the bullets thudded into the living flesh of the victim. One went right through her heart, and by the large gout of blood released at the puncture, the nation of viewers knew that they had just seen another kill.

Her face had a surprised look. Slowly, she sank to her knees, still staring at Bethany, then she fell forward. Her wide eyes remained open, her hand still lifted in a friendly gesture, and the shredded plastic of her drink bottle leaked water that mingled with the growing pool of blood beneath her. Some of the bullets had gone right through her, by the small red stains that were gradually spreading across the back of her jumper.

"It works now," affirmed Bethany. "Thanks." She suddenly realised that she was tired. She thought it had been a long day, and it was now nearly 3am. A few hundred metres away, she sank down near one of the megaphone poles that dotted the island, and drifted off to sleep without difficulty.

-

3 dead, 21 remain.

-

They heard Alison Robinson's scream from next door. "Poor woman," the neighbours thought, as Katie had been the youngest and most beloved child of the family, a sweet girl who acted and looked younger than her sixteen years, their little girl as much as her mother's. Alison had just seen her daughter's bullet-ridden body fall at the feet of a merciless killer, her only crime being unlucky enough to be selected. But they were pragmatic as onlookers could be. "Girls sometimes win the Program," they said, "but not girls like Katie." There must be something wrong with Bethany, something seriously wrong with her mind, but in the Program, people like her were the only ones really in with a chance.

"If not my Katie," Alison Robinson wept, "someone good. Not _her_."

-

"It works now, thanks?" repeated Richie Stuart, incredulous. "Is that all? Is that all the little bitch is going to say? Doesn't she realise there are _careers _resting on this show being entertaining?"

Richie was overreacting, but then again, he was usually nervous in the hours running up to the first report. Sometimes the first six hours could make or break a season. It had to be good. The kills had to be spectacular. The first two had fulfilled all his requirements. Bethany Tupper's dispatching of Katie Robinson less so.

"Sir," suggested one of the production team, "I think it's quite appealing. She couldn't care less, so she's not going to put on a show. Some people could go for that."

"Could they, now," said Richie, disliking to be corrected. "I suppose we'd better get that performance psycho-analysed. Get the psychiatrists in for the breakfast show. And get me my fucking drink."

It was still dark in his studio, but over the island, the sky was turning pale with morning, a thin bank of salmon-coloured clouds scudding the pre-dawn horizon. The first day of the game would begin at six o'clock exactly.


	4. Transcript: 0600 Day 1

(Transcript from _The Program_, aka _BR2019UK_, aired on state TV at 05:45, May 1st 2019)

(_Applause, theme music. The camera sweeps down from above, over the heads of a large studio audience who are cheering and holding up signs: "Go Bethany" and "We love Will and his Big Ice Pick" among them. The noise in the studio reaches near-cacophonic levels as the host, RICHIE STUART, strides out onto his show stage and waves to the audience._)

RICHIE STUART

Welcome! Welcome! Welcome, everyone, it's faaan-tastic to have you all here! It's so early in the morning but you all look so excited!

In just a moment, I'm going to be speaking into my special microphone which connects directly with the speakers on the island, and giving the First Report to our contestants. Remember, most of them do not yet know who was unlucky during the first six hours of play. It's possible that there will be more to add to the list even during this programme, so keep an eye on the screens! (_He indicates smaller viewing screens around the main one, focusing on different regions of the island: the sleeping Stephan and Joe in the north, an unknown figure in the lighthouse, two girls in a dilapidated building by the sea, as well as many shots of forest, coast and open land._)

I also need to let them know where we're planning to put the new danger zones. The rules of the game demand three – one at seven, one at nine and one at eleven. We've had contestants caught out by these before, so it'll be interesting to see how they handle the addition of danger zones to their peaceful island.

For those of you who stayed up last night to watch the inaugral session and the live coverage (_A wave of cheering is heard from the die-hard fans at the front_) – yes, it was good stuff, wasn't it? – you will know that we are down to twenty-one from an original twenty-four. The unlucky contestants were Master Mahmoud Ibrahim (that's Boy 7), Miss Nina Haczynski, Girl 4, and Miss Katie Robinson, or Girl 11.

(_The faces of the three dead contestants appear on the screens behind Richie._) They were hardly in before they were out again. What a shame for them to miss all the fun!

One thing people say to me every year, you know, is "Richie Richie Richie, I love the Program, but it's over so quickly! It's not easy to get to know all the contestants in such a short time, especially when they're dying off at a rate of knots." So this year we had a little explore into the lives of our contestants before they were selected. We sent an intrepid reporter up north, to the kids' home town. Now it's time for the video. Try not to fall asleep…

(_The audience's attention turns to the screens behind Richie. A reporter walks down an average urban street, looking around her._)

REPORTER

It doesn't look like much, does it? Yet this small Lancastrian town on the shoulders of the Pennines has been thrust into the spotlight as the home of our twenty-four contestants for this year's Program. I have been granted exclusive access to their school, where most of them spent the last five years as part of Class 11AT.

(_She goes into the school, greeted by the headteacher who seems to be giving her the tour._)

HEADTEACHER 

This was their classroom… I remember Natalie, Zoe, Emma, Katie and all that lot used to sit just there.

REPORTER

Right at the front?

HEADTEACHER

Yes, right by the teacher. They were good girls.

REPORTER

What about Bethany Tupper, the girl who's caused a media frenzy with her callous dispatching of her classmate Katie Robinson?

HEADTEACHER

Bethany… yes. I didn't know her too well, to be honest – she transferred into 11AT at the end of last year. Quiet, no extra-curriculars at all – I think she ran at sports day, but they all do – yes, I can't imagine where that came from. Just goes to show what lies beneath.

(_In the next shot, they walk down a corridor together._)

HEADTEACHER

We had high hopes for Will Dalton. Hard-working boy – wouldn't say bright, but he makes up for it. He could've gone far. He still could. We obviously can't play favourites, but I don't mind admitting I put a small amount on Will to win.

(_A clip of Will killing Nina Haczynski and Mahmoud Ibrahim plays_.)

HEADTEACHER

Yes, this is the canteen where they ate their lunches…

(_The canteen is full of kids, who all turn to the camera and shout, _"Go 11AT!")

REPORTER

After my visit to the school, I decided to look into the home lives of other contestants. This is the restaurant belonging to the uncle of Boy 1, Stephan Andropoulos. (_A clip plays of Stephan saving Joe Wright from the sea._) We're going in to see if we can get any insights.

MILOS ANDROPOULOS

Good afternoon, ma'am – table for one? (_He notices the camera and his eyes narrow_) What is this?

REPORTER

I'm from the Program, I was wondering if you could spare us a…

MILOS ANDROPOULOS

No.

REPORTER

But can you tell us what kind of boy your nephew Stephan was, before…

MILOS ANDROPOULOS

No. Go away, you are not welcome. (_Stephan's father looks out from the kitchen, then turns away, pressing a towel to his face. The TV in the restaurant is playing the Program._)

REPORTER

(_Outside_) Well, not everyone will be cooperative.

(_Talking to an old woman in the street._) You are Alex Green's grandmother?

EDITH GREEN

Yes, yes I am. He's a good boy is our Alex. Never in any trouble.

REPORTER

You think he'll win?

EDITH GREEN

Oh yes, I'm sure he'll do his best.

REPORTER

(_Talking to two young boys outside a sweet shop_) How do you think your big sister Sophie's going to do on the Program?

MICHAEL ORR

(_Grins_) Sophie'll win.

PAUL ORR

Girls don't win.

MICHAEL ORR

Yeah they do. They do sometimes.

(_Applause again from the audience at the end of the film._)

RICHIE STUART

Yes, girls are at no disadvantage – the Program, like our society, is entirely equal.

Now it's time to wake up the contestants on the island. Give them a big hand for their efforts last night, and cheer them on for the rest of the day!

(_Amid cheering and clapping, Richie Stuart stands on a platform which rises to another level above the stage. There, his microphone for broadcasting to the island is waiting._)

RICHIE STUART

Music!

(_Speakers in the studio similar to those on the island begin to play the 1812 Overture. At an appropriate point, Richie Stuart cuts in and begins to give the report._)

RICHIE STUART

Good morning campers!

I hope you all had a good night's sleep, for those of you who were sleeping. Now it's time to wake up and get back to work!

I will read the names of the students who are now eliminated from the game. Three down in the first six hours: you are more or less on target. Keep it up and you'll be home before you know it. The three eliminations were:

Boys #7, Mahmoud Ibrahim!

Girls #4, Nina Haczynski!

Girls #11, Katie Robinson!

Remember what I told you about danger zones? I hope you were listening to that part of the video, it's quite important! The danger zones this morning will be D4, at 7, then B1, at 9, and finally, E7, at 11.

Don't let your classmates outshine you! Try to make at least one kill this morning. Keep the show exciting for the viewers at home, your mums, dads and neighbours, and most especially, all the boys at Program central!"

(_A loud cheer from the audience, then a growing number of yells and catcalls from one side. "Look! E6!" they are shouting.)_

RICHIE STUART

What? Look at square E7? Bring it up on the main screen… oh _my. _Naked girls!

-

3 eliminated, 21 to go…


	5. Alicia Brown

**05:27, Day 1 / E7**

"I wish there was a hot tap," said Emma (Girl 5), rubbing her arms. The water was cold and goosepimples were rising on her bare skin. Nevertheless she kept herself modestly immersed, the water lapping at her collarbone. Alicia had been right. If there were perverts watching them undress and swim, that was their problem (the word Alicia had used had been _sin_) and they should feel absolutely no shame in what they were doing.

Through the corner of her eye, Emma could see their pile of weapons glinting on the sands. They were safe. Finally safe. Alicia had an AK-47 and she had a pistol, and Alicia knew a way off the island. Somehow, someway, everything was going to be all right. She and Erin and Alicia would escape together.

"It's shampoo I need," said Erin (Girl 6). She dunked her head under the water and surfaced again, her short hair clinging to her face like a lego helmet. "Three days without and my hair is going to _ming_."

"Aren't there more important things?" Emma giggled. "Giant jellyfish, maybe? Sharks? The coastal patrol? They said if we try to escape by sea…"

Her wet fingers touched the cold waterproof metal of her collar. Alicia hadn't been clear on that.

"No, only if you get more than fifty metres out, we're nowhere near that," said Erin. She looked to Alicia for confirmation, but Alicia (Girl 1) was facing away from them, floating her body in the water, her face toward the sun. Her mind was elsewhere.

_God's world_, she thought, _is so very beautiful._

She'd been at church camp when it happened. It was the week after her ninth birthday and her parents had let her sleep away from home for the first time as a special treat. All the children were fast asleep in their beds after a tiring day of crafts and walking, so no-one woke until the fire alarms went off.

The children's dormitory was already thick with smoke, the acrid fumes hanging in a layer about eye-level. The smoke drifted in from the open door that led to the recreation room and the kitchens. The girl in the bed next to Alicia's just sat there, holding her soft toy and crying. Others were running about in a panic, screaming and calling for the camp supervisors to come and rescue them. The adults slept in another block and would only be able to reach them by going through the kitchen, which was rendered impassible by the smoke and flames. The children heard them shouting from outside: _Please hurry! The kids are still in there!_

For the first time in their lives, the children realised that the adults could not protect them.

Alicia didn't remember what made her act – she simply stepped into the role of leader as naturally as putting on her shoes. She told everyone not to be scared, and that they'd be fine – remember everything they'd learned yesterday at camp? God wouldn't let anything bad happen to them. All they needed to do was follow her and stay together. She told them all to crouch on their hands and knees to stay lower than the level of the smoke, and crawl – pretending to be animals – out into the smoke-filled corridor and towards the emergency exit. There was a sinister orange glow reflected on the walls from the burning kitchen. Alicia had them singing the songs they'd learned in church to keep them distracted. Outside there were sirens, men in funny masks, hosepipes. Through the smoke they recognised the figures of the staff, outside in their pyjamas, and the children ran to them to be comforted. Terrified for the children's safety, the camp organisers had prayed for a miracle. The miracle's name was Alicia.

There had been a piece in the local paper about it the following day. Alicia's photograph was on the front page next to the headline, "Brave girl saves day in camp fire drama". She'd been asked to speak about it in school assembly, at which point she'd explained modestly what had happened and why she'd been able to help. Some of the teachers thought that she made rather too many references to religion, and kept an eye on her thereafter. But to Alicia, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Somebody has to take control, otherwise nothing gets done. God helps those who help themselves. It was easy enough when all you had to do was listen to God's will, and obey.

In the sea, clean and cool and immersed in the beauty of God's world, Alicia felt at peace. She was grateful, even for the adversity she currently faced, for it made her appreciate that beauty all the more. God knew her name, and she was sure His guiding hand was helping her through her struggle. He had led Erin and Emma to her, both safe and all-too-eager to team up. An inventory check of the backpacks revealed that the random selection of weaponry had been kind to them, and they were among the most heavily-armed on the island. And on their way to E7 on the far eastern coast of the island, they had seen a derelict cottage, almost dug into the hillside, which still looked structurally sound but not difficult to enter. They could hide there, safe and unseen. All it took was a little honest faith, and Alicia saw the generous rewards spread before her. She was so grateful.

**05:27, Day 1, E6**

She had been in a light sleep but the banging jolted her awake. Someone was knocking at the cottage door. At first the surroundings were unfamiliar, but then her memories returned. _Gas… the Program… ran East… found cottage unlocked, lucky… hours of well-earned sleep_.

It was light, but the morning report hadn't yet been broadcast, so before six. She suppressed a yawn and reached for her shotgun, loaded and on hand in case she should need it. It occurred to her that someone planning to kill her probably wouldn't knock, but then again, she'd tried not to advertise her presence. Perhaps they wanted to check if the cottage was empty.

After struggling with the rusty latch for a few moments, the visitor got the door open and came in. It was Alex Green (Boy 6), and he tapped again on the door, as if trying not to intrude. "Anyone there?" he called hopefully.

She peeped over the banister. _Alex? _She remembered him in the school:

"…_We can't get separated and spread out all over the island. That's what they want us to do. I had this idea... let's all meet on top of the mountain in the centre of the map, twelve noon tomorrow – you just turn up, I'll go looking for the ones who have already gone to tell them."_

He couldn't be playing. She didn't really trust boys, but Alex, of all people, was completely incapable of harming anyone.

Zoe Peacock (Girl 9) slowly stood up, revealing herself to him. She kept the shotgun in her hand but it was pointed away from him.

"Hi," she said.

Alex turned, startled, then smiled, happy to see her. "Zoe! Sorry if I woke you. I wasn't sure if there was anyone here."

"No, it's fine," she said, stretching, trying to make herself feel more alive. What she could do with was a strong coffee and her morning run. The combination of caffeine and oxygen to the brain never failed to wake her up.

"You're on your own, then. The island's bigger than I thought it was. It's really easy to get lost, especially in that massive wood in the middle of it."

"Yeah." Alex sat down at the kitchen table, dumping his bag on the floor. He was sweaty, missing his school tie, and his trousers were muddied to the knee.

"Are you still looking for people?" said Zoe. She went into the kitchen and took out some goods she'd found last night – a teapot, solid fuel, some cracked old cups, one precious teabag from the few left behind at the back of a cupboard, and a bucket of water she'd drawn from the well. It smelt good and there was no sense wasting their scant water ration when it was going to be boiled anyway.

Alex stretched. "Yeah… I haven't seen many, though. Everyone's hiding."

"Who did you see?" she asked.

"Dave and Natalie are still trying to organise this meet-up thing – I saw them on the north slope of the mountain. They've got James – James Lewis – with them, and Paul. If I had mobile numbers for more people it'd help, but the signal keeps going down."

As the kettle began to warm on the stove, Zoe checked her own phone. She had one bar of signal, and no new messages.

"You've been all round the island, then?" she said.

"Not quite. I've had a look round the woods, the mountain, and part of the village by the school. Then I checked the north coast and I was just coming down the east side of the island this morning."

The kettle began to sing, so Zoe took it off the heat.

"Did you hear the gunshots?" Zoe laid her shotgun across the table and poured the tea, then sat down opposite him. "I think someone's already dead."

Alex took his cup and held it between his hands. "We don't know that. Yeah, I heard them, but I haven't seen any bodies, so… assume no-one's dead until the announcements."

"Why waste bullets like that?" said Zoe. "I think it's likely that someone is dead or injured."

He and Zoe drank tea in silence for a while. Eventually, he drained his mug and stood up. The cold atmosphere was making him uncomfortable, and Zoe… she wasn't really a close friend. She was friends with Natalie, but Alex had her down as the sports-mad, victory-obsessed type, unable to relax and chat if it wasn't about team listings or upcoming contests.

"All right, I should get moving," he said. "If I don't find anyone else in this sector, I'm heading back North. I forgot to check the lighthouse, and there's that whole residential district by the sea. If there's no-one there, I'm going back to the mountain to join with Nat and Dave for twelve. See you there?"

"See you there," said Zoe uncertainly. She took his teacup from him. "I'll tell anyone I see."

"Great. Thanks, Zoe." He picked up his bag and jacket and set off.

She squinted into the cold light outside. Not even 6am. She wasn't going to go back to sleep, in case she missed the first announcement. Her game had begun now, and she would never see Alex alive again.

**-**

**Earlier**

"You _know a way off the island_?" said Erin, astonished. She dropped her bag and stared at Alicia. "How is that possible?"

"I did my research," said Alicia. It was still cold, a predawn fog hanging over the sea, and the three girls stood and shivered on the beach. Alicia's suggestion of a swim in the sea (naked on live TV!) had almost provoked an outright rebellion from Erin, and Emma had been extremely reluctant. Then Alicia had dropped the bombshell. She knew a way off the island.

"There was always a possibility this might happen to us this year," said Alicia. "I'm surprised more sixteen-year-olds don't bother to read up. I investigated a few… anomalies, past games, that sort of thing. And I have a foolproof plan that will get us off this island without us having to fire a shot."

"Then come on and tell us about it!" said Erin.

Alicia tapped her collar. "I can't, for the same reason that you don't want to take your clothes off. We're live on TV, and this conversation is being watched by all those people with nothing to do at 5am, as well as the officials who can activate the collars. How long do you think we'd have to live if I explained everything now?"

Emma looked stunned.

"I can't believe it," she said. "You really have a plan?"

"Yes," said Alicia, with a slow, satisfied smile. "I promise. All three of us can go home."

"Then we need to get more people!" Emma said.

"I can't save everyone," said Alicia. She looked down. "I'm so very sorry. It can only work with a few. No more than four or five, really. I can't have that on my conscience, going out, picking and choosing people to live and die. That's not up to me. If people come to me, and prove that they are trustworthy, they can come."

"Okay. So, what do you need us to do?" said Erin. "I'm in. This is our best chance, I think, so if you really have to have us looking like prats in the sea, OK. I'll do it. I suppose… people seeing me naked is the least of my worries, now…"

Emma nodded. "If you will I will," she said. That was more or less how their friendship had worked through all the years since they met at primary school.

"That's great," said Alicia. She put down her AK-47 on the sand and looked to Erin and Emma meaningfully.

"No weapons. You have to trust me."

Erin obeyed, unhooking the sheathed machete from her belt and laying it with Alicia's gun. Emma's Beretta went beside it.

Then they took off their clothes and went for a swim in the sea, cold and deliciously refreshing against their tired, stressed bodies, guaranteeing themselves a place in Alicia's escape plan (as well as a spot in the Program Highlights DVD).

-

**06:00, Day 1, C4**

Stephan being Stephan, his dreams were Stephan dreams, and that meant sex. Lots of it. Tonight he was being straddled by a luscious redhead, who rocked back and forth against him, her glossy lips parted. How she came to be there was irrelevant. It was very nice. She tossed her head back in pleasure, moaning deliciously. His hands clasped her waist and his fingers reached up to graze her nipples. Stephan rocked his hips into her, his breathing quickening, the pressure building. He was close, almost there...

She was gone. Stephan looked down, with an unpleasant anticipation. _Infected_, he remembered. No sex for Stephan. It was limp, withered and pockmarked, rotten with disease. In his imagination the infection took on massive proportions, until it spread all over his body and marked him out for all to see. It had been that night in the club when he'd forgotten his wallet, and there was that girl, all sleazy and sexy and interesting – you can borrow a fiver for a drink, but asking your mates for a love glove? Of course the shithole club toilets didn't have a machine. Now he wished he _had_ asked. It'd have saved him a lot of embarrassment at the clinic. Being diseased sucked even harder than she had. He couldn't even pee at the urinals in case the other boys saw him wince. And now, stuck on an island with both Zoe and Natalie and not being allowed to have his fun…

_...an island..._

He groaned as everything that had happened over the last twenty-four hours came rushing back to him. Suddenly, the redhead and her toxic pussy seemed like the more pleasant option.

Someone was shaking him. Irritably, he rolled over, feeling wet sand against his back. His whole body was slightly damp, recalling the previous night's activities. "Joe? What's up?" he muttered, opening half an eye. Then he sat up.

"Music? What…?"

The loudspeakers answered the question for him, as the 1812 overture assaulted his ears, followed by Richie Stuart's loud, brash voice.

"Good morning campers!"

Stephan and Joe looked at each other.

"First report. Maps!" was about as coherent as Stephan was able to be at that time of the morning. He fumbled around looking for his map, and eventually managed to get it out of its plastic sheath and have a pen ready.

"The three eliminations were:

"Boys #7, Mahmoud Ibrahim!

"Girls #4, Nina Haczynski!

"Girls #11, Katie Robinson!

"The danger zones this morning will be D4, at 7, then B1, at 9, and finally, E7, at 11."

"Joe? Were you going to write that down?"

Joe hadn't moved. He stood up, grey of face, wobbling on his feet. Then he ran to the mouth of the cave and was disastrously sick.

_Not here_, he thought desperately. _Not now…_

-

3 eliminated, 21 to go…


	6. Plan B

**8:07, Day 1, London Hilton Hotel / Richie Stuart**

"It's funny," said Richie Stuart. "Happens every year, like clockwork, at about this time. Do you think it's human nature?"

"What is?" said Anna, yawning.

"I mean, every time we do the Program, some young idiot gets the idea into their head that there's a secret way of escape, or that through teamwork they can overcome anything..."

He poured himself his morning whisky and offered Anna one, but she declined. Richie gulped it down and said, "I know the kids are selected at random, so you can only expect average intelligence, but it seems like wilful stupidity. And they do it every fucking year." He gestured at the TV screen with his empty glass. "The sooner they get with the Program, so to speak, the better their chances of survival."

"I think it's..." said Anna, but Richie cut her off, not liking his musings to be interrupted.

"Meat, that's what they're making themselves into. Fresh meat. There really is no tactical advantage to behaving like this. And we need to get new fucking technicals. The mobile phones should be dead by now. The little phone-addicts might stop texting each other and start playing if they'd do their job properly."

Richie tossed the empty bottle in the bin and picked up the phone to call room service. He liked his breakfast at about this time, so he wouldn't get hungry during the morning TV show, which took two hours and culminated in the reading of the second report. Richie had to be on top form, and his rages if something didn't go his way were legendary.

"So Annikins," he said, turning back to his girlfriend who hadn't moved from the bed, "Why _do _they do it?"

"It's hope," she said quietly, still fixated on the screen. "That's why they do it. In this game, you have nothing else."

-

On the top of the mountain, in square E4, highest point on the island, a girl was waving her mobile phone above her head. She squinted up at the screen again and said to her companion, "One bar. No… two. The signal keeps coming and going."

"It's getting worse. Mine is totally dead." Making a sound of disgust, Paul Yates (Boy 12) flipped his phone shut and dropped it into his trouser pocket. "Is it Plan B, then?"

"Not just yet. Let's have another go."

Natalie Rankin (Girl 10) tapped in another number and pressed the phone to her ear. She was trying to call Zoe Peacock (Girl 9), who came just before her in the register. Zoe's name had not been read out on the first report at six that morning, so it could be assumed that she was all right. But she was not answering her phone, which lay unattended in her bag. In fact, she was not in her cottage at all, but elsewhere, and Natalie's calls went unheard and unanswered.

Paul and Natalie were part of the popular clique in their class. They were more or less friends with everyone. Natalie was probably the leader of the group, if there was one. She looked and behaved older than her years. If it wasn't for the school uniform (improved as it was with a few cute accessories, and the girlish hairstyle of long blonde waves) she could have passed for a woman in her early twenties. Natalie was nice to everyone, even the less popular ones, and she had been elected class representative to the student council for two years running. No-one really had a reason to dislike Natalie, except those few who believed, not without evidence, that she only 'represented' the interests of her friendship group.

Paul Yates was no less popular than Natalie. He played drums in a local band, and was the object of several crushes among his female classmates, being a standard musician type with floppy golden hair and long languorous arms lined with muscle. His sense of humour was more poisonous and bitchy than Natalie's, and he liked to criticise his classmates, frequent targets being the wholesome Christian Union members (although he would never dare say such things in Alicia's hearing), as well as the quiet, awkward kids like Lauren Norris, Katie Robinson and Joe Wright – and then there were boys like Sami Modha and Jack Trull who never said a word in class, and were weird and socially deficient.

It had been an incredible stroke of luck that Natalie and Paul should have come across their good friend Dave Brunning, a friendly slacker and Paul's bandmate (Dave being the lead guitarist, able to thrash out a tune but not too technically competent, also popular with girls). And Dave had James Lewis (Boy 8) with him, so their group was already increased to four, even before they tried to use their phones to recruit more classmates. James was more one of Alicia's group than Dave's, a committed Christian and regarded as straight-laced and boring. But he was a nice boy, and he was only too eager to join Natalie's growing survival society. He was terrified of the prospect of being alone. To Natalie, Paul and their friends, gathering the whole class together on the mountaintop seemed like the natural solution.

"Zoe's not picking up," said Natalie. "It's ringing, but… no answer. I'll try Alex." She dialled another number and held the phone to her ear, strands of blonde hair whipping her face as she shielded herself from the strong wind.

-

Bethany Tupper heard the incongruous bleep of Alex's ringtone close at hand She rubbed her eyes and blinked. She had been sleeping at the foot of one of the many megaphone poles on the island until six, when the din of the morning announcement had woken her up. She had written down the new danger zones, found a wooded area away from any sources of noise distraction, and gone back to sleep. At home, she never rose before 7am if she could help it.

She saw Alex in profile, not too far away, his face framed by the thorny thicket behind which she was hiding. She gently eased the Uzi from under her body, where she'd slept with it close to her, the gun-metal warmed by the heat of her skin.

Alex picked up his phone and spoke into it, quickly, excitedly. "Nat? Hi. Are you all right? Cool... no... the only person I've seen is Zoe. She's in the cottage in the... in the east? No, she's OK, she's coming at twelve – at least, she was fine when I left her. Can't find anyone else. Who's with you?" He listened, and nodded. Bethany silently reached into her bag and manoeuvred a clip toward the base of her gun, but dared not load it yet in case he heard.

"I'm done looking for people," said Alex. He wiped his face, a line of dirt and sweat transferring onto his shirt sleeve. "I've been all round the island and I'm knackered. It's no good me being out here looking while everybody's hiding. I'll come up to the mountain. Yeah, OK. I'm heading your way then. OK, see you soon."

He checked his map, then turned his footsteps to the north, following an overgrown path that gradually began to rise towards the high ground on the centre of the island. Unknown to him, always twenty steps behind and quiet as the wind, Bethany followed him, trailing her bag from one shoulder, the loaded machine pistol in her hand.

-

At 8:15am, the Program technicians finally succeeded in blocking all mobile phone signals from the island. The students could no longer call or text each other, and any attempt to reach an outside number would be put through to a premium-rate porn hotline, a little joke of Richie Stuart's.

Dave Brunning (Boy 3) snapped his phone shut and slipped it back in his pocket. "Think the signal's gone for good," he said. He was a tall, classically handsome boy with a crossbow on a strap over his shoulder, currently stationed to keep watch over the southern approach to the mountain summit and intercept any comers.

"Dead as a really dead thing," agreed James Lewis (Boy 8). Smaller and younger in appearance than Dave, he had a nervous energy about him that could change from excitement to mortal terror at a moment's notice. He had spent most of the morning trying to call his parents, without success – all he heard was static, radio noise, bleeps and once, an exhortation from Richie Stuart to stop wasting time and get on with the game. Then he had been treated to a breathy-voiced woman with a Russian accent, asking what he was wearing and if she could make him happy today. At that point he had thrown the phone away from him as if it had suddenly turned into a poisonous snake, and the screen had got cracked so it was hard to tell if he had any signal or not. James's weapon, a blow pipe and roll of darts, never left his hand, and the casing was getting all sweaty.

"Guys?"

Paul called down to the two boys who had been on watch. Alarmed, James spun round, blowpipe in hand, but Dave laid a placating hand on his shoulder.

Natalie and Paul ran down the scree to join their teammates. Natalie's foot slipped on some of the loose rock underfoot, and Dave caught her elbow to steady her. "Careful," he said.

"Never said I was any good at mountaineering," she laughed. "Thanks."

"Guys," Paul said, "Nat called Alex and he's coming back here. He can't find anyone. So we were going to try Plan B."

"Just so you know in advance," said Natalie, "This probably isn't going to work. It's a crazy idea."

"Even if it doesn't work," said Paul, "there's still four of us. Us four could still escape together, even if we can't find anybody else."

"Still, we should try it, and get as many as possible." said Dave. "The difficult part is how do we get up the megaphone pole in the first place? Any of you got a ladder in your bags?"

James Lewis said, "There's… like a shed, a bit further down from where we were on watch. Might be a ladder in there?"

"Good idea," said Dave, and James grinned, liking to be appreciated. "We'll go and check it out."

-

The woodcutter's hut on the south slope of the mountain was coming apart at the seams. It wasn't difficult to prise the lock off the door, and the rust-bitten hinges gave way. Pale sunlight fell on the dusty floor of the shed. Dave, Natalie, Paul and James peered into the gloom.

"I'm going to have a look," said Natalie. She took a step forward.

Then there was someone there.

The shotgun blast was obscenely loud on the quiet hillside, echoing across the mountain, sending clouds of birds from their trees in fright. Natalie threw herself out of the way just in time. The shooter filled most of the doorway, and the morning sun fell on her thick straight red hair that she wore in pigtails, and a charm necklace that hung from her shirt collar.

"Lauren?" said Dave.

Lauren Norris (Girl 7) turned on him, pointing the shotgun at his head, her big red face set in a grimace of hatred.

"Go away," she said, spittle escaping her lips and hanging from her chin in an insane loop. "Are you stupid? Only one winner! Only one! There's four of you!"

"Lauren, don't!" cried Natalie.

"We're not playing!" insisted James. "We'd never play this game!"

Lauren laughed. "Course you're not! I don't see any guns. I bet you'd start playing pretty quick, once you'd made me give you mine... stupid fucking fat Lauren Norris, there's an easy kill! Wait till the fatty goes to sleep, then – bang!"

She thrust the shotgun forward at James in a threatening jab. He screamed and dived for cover behind a pile of cut logs. Natalie and Paul ducked down beside him. But Dave did not move.

"Just hear us out," said Dave. "Stop shooting, we're not going to hurt you."

"Stupid!" cried Lauren, and pulled the trigger, aiming directly at his chest. Her shotgun clicked. It wasn't cocked. Making a whimper of fear in her throat, she pulled the trigger again and again. Dave moved forward slowly.

"Dave, what the fuck are you doing? Get down!" hissed Paul.

"Lauren," said Dave, his voice slow and calm, "I'm glad we found you."

The shotgun began to shake in Lauren's hands. "What?" she gulped.

"The Lauren I know is not the sort of person who would play this game. She's the kind of person I could trust. I'd trust her with my life because I know she's a good person."

Dave advanced a few more steps. Natalie covered her eyes.

"You... you don't even know me," Lauren stammered, dribble running down her chin.

"I wish I'd made more of an effort to get to know you, now," said Dave. "I've seen how you are with Katie and Erin and Emma. Remember when Katie was crying because she'd lost her ring in the playground – and you skived a whole English lesson just to be with her and make her feel better?"

Lauren did remember. She might not have been one of Natalie's group, but she was at least a good friend to Katie. Her face was clouded with sadness.

"Katie – she's dead, isn't she. They said... her name was on the report..."

Dave remembered a drunken night a while ago in which the boys were talking about who had a crush on someone in the class, and his friend James Dyer (Boy 5) had confessed to liking Lauren Norris. Dave hadn't understood at the time: Lauren was overweight and ginger, while there were certainly prettier girls in the class. He decided not to bring that up now, even though he was trying to convince Lauren that his group didn't hate her, as he'd confessed that same night that he liked Natalie and he'd rather that didn't become public knowledge just now.

"I've lost a friend too," said Dave. "Nina... I've known her since primary school. Maybe... we've both lost somebody... maybe we could be friends now?"

"Friends..."

Lauren snivelled, lowering the shotgun fractionally. "I... I wanted to be friends with you... so much... but now there's a time limit – three days... after three days they explode the collars. Maybe... we could be friends... three days. It'd be enough."

"There doesn't have to be a time limit," said Dave, nodding and smiling too much. "If we get enough people together, we can figure out a way... even that school can't stand up to twenty of us with weapons. Giving you that shotgun? Biggest mistake the bastards ever made. I wish they'd given me one. They armed us, we fuck them over. And we do it together."

"With you in the group, there's five of us now," said Natalie, keeping her eye on the shotgun as she rose to stand behind Dave. "Alex and Zoe are coming too, but we want everyone. So we're going to attempt what I call Plan B."

Lauren wiped her face with a shaking hand. The shotgun fell from her unresisting fingers.

"Plan B?" she said.

"Have you got a ladder in there?" said Paul. "We might need some help."

-

(3 eliminated, 21 to go)


	7. Hero, Part I

Richie Stuart sat in his plush leather chair and smiled at the cameras. Following the instructions of the screens in front of them, the studio audience was going wild, waving banners in praise of their favourite contestants and homemade cardboard weapons. This was the noon show, several hours of analysis, commentary and live footage from the island, culminating in the second report, to be read at twelve noon sharp. Workers in the many state-owned factories got the morning off, so they wouldn't miss the Program. But productivity was high as ever, because everyone was so excited about the annual event.

"Thank you, thank you," said Richie Stuart, gesturing for the applause to quieten a bit so he could speak. "Well, we've reached another focal point in this year's Battle Royale. It has become a tradition that, at some point in the early to mid game, a group of enterprising students try to bring down the Program. Bombs, bullets, suicidal sword charges... I'm sure we all remember BR 2015."

The screens behind Richie Stuart showed some footage from the game of four years ago. It was night. The streetlights in the condemned estate chosen for that year's game were dead, the buildings dark and some scored with bullet holes. The only building occupied was the school, bristling with soldiers, and the soundtrack picked out the whirr of helicopter blades overhead. A blood-spattered boy, mad-eyed and screaming, ran at full tilt down the empty street towards the school, a sabre raised in his hand. The soldiers stood alert, aiming their rifles at him. Then, the boy's collar beeped twice as he crossed into the permanent danger zone. The cameras gave an extreme close-up on his face as it transmuted to a look of absolute horror, before his collar exploded in a shower of metal shrapnel and blood. The sword clattered to the ground, followed by his body.

"Not all," said Richie Stuart, "behave like the late Boy 6 there – _thankfully._ Sometimes, students refuse to play the game and manage a rare kind of group spirit – they vow to live and die together, to never give up until it's over. Stirring stuff. I think," he said, raising his arms to the screens all around, "that this year, we have a bad case of teamwork! Let's take a look at this morning's footage..."

-

"So, who came up with this?" said Lauren Norris, balancing the rear end of the ladder precariously on her shoulder as she struggled with her shotgun and daypack.

"Nat did," said Dave, puffing under the weight of the ladder. "I could never have thought of it."

Finally, they reached the megaphone pole on the mountain top and threw the ladder down. They were all out of breath from the steep climb, their ankles scratched by brambles, their knees scored from constant slipping on the loose rocks on the mountainside. But their spirits were high.

"I do drama club," Natalie explained. "I auditioned for a part in the play last year, then I broke my leg. It was a total nightmare at the time. I couldn't take the part with a plaster cast on, but by then I was really into the play, and I didn't want to be left out. So instead of acting I joined the sound engineer's team. These megaphones are the same make as the sound board we used in the production. I sort of know how the circuits are laid out, and if I'm remembering it all right, there's usually a way you can connect up a microphone directly to the sound speaker and override the main circuit." She laughed. "Mr. Fisher was in charge of the sound board. He used to activate the speakers at random times to scare us. Nothing worse than having the speaker behind you suddenly go, 'I can seee you!' "

"Perv," said Paul.

Lauren giggled. Natalie was such a nice girl, funny and pretty and kind – it was no wonder everyone liked her.

"Microphone?" said James Lewis. "Do we have one?"

"Yeah, no sweat," said Paul. "We were supposed to have band practice after school." He handed Dave the microphone. "No singing," he told him firmly. Lauren laughed too much.

"Wait… why are you all looking at me?" Dave moaned. "I can't… you can't expect me to…"

"You're good at this kind of thing," said Natalie. It was true. Dave had been the only one not to panic when Lauren came at them with her shotgun.

"_There doesn't have to be a time limit... If we get enough people together, we can figure out a way... even that school can't stand up to twenty of us with weapons. Giving you that shotgun? Biggest mistake the bastards ever made. I wish they'd given me one. They armed us, we fuck them over. And we do it together."_

_We do it together…_

"Okay, I'm going up," said Natalie. Dave and Paul manoeuvred the ladder into place for her, and she began to climb, affording a pleasing shot of the seat of her school trousers to the viewers at home. "If I fuck up, let me apologise in advance!"

The viewing screens froze on a shot of Natalie prising open the back of the megaphone with her screwdriver. Richie Stuart shook his head slowly, his face as stern as a schoolmaster.

"It took fifty-four minutes: slow but effective, I'd say, and we readily admit that the megaphones are not all they might be in terms of security, but we've never had anyone try anything like this before. Our phone lines have been jammed with calls from sound engineers testifying against Girl 10's methods – remember, she's operating on a live circuit, and the slightest slip would give her a fatal electric shock, eliminating her from the game in a most _interesting_ way. So remember, don't try this at home."

"Pass us the pliers," called Natalie, wiping sweat from her brow. James scrambled up the ladder behind her and passed her the tools, at pains not to press against her body while maintaining his grip on the ladder. It turned out to be impossible to descend again without brushing Natalie's bottom. He hurried down, blushing hotly.

Natalie made a final adjustment, then blew into the microphone. The resultant crackle echoed across the mountain-top, amplified many times. After that came the cheering.

"Nat, you're a fucking STAR!" Dave yelled exuberantly and threw his arms around her as she jumped down from the ladder in triumph. "You did it!"

"Yeah…" said Natalie, still slightly dazed. She grinned like an idiot and hugged Dave back, pulling away only to massage her tired arms. "It works…"

"We've still got about an hour before the noon announcement," said Paul, "so Dave, you going to get up there and do your thing?"

"Suppose I've had it easy so far," said Dave, hauling himself up the ladder as if unwilling, and cleared his throat, the sound echoing weirdly across the open land. It was absurd. Now he was here, he wasn't sure what to say.

"Er… hi, everyone," he began. "This is Dave… Dave Brunning, on top of the mountain in the middle of the map. We've got into the megaphones, or at least, this one, so if you can hear me, listen up."

He looked down to Natalie for encouragement. She gave him thumbs-ups.

He cleared his throat. "I'm guessing that I'm not in an class full of secret homicidal maniacs. We're all just normal people, going to a normal lesson, and none of us wanted to be on the Program. You're scared, thinking that it's really bad luck but you'll have to do it? Screw that! You do have a choice! You really don't have to play! There's all kinds of things wrong with a country that lets this happen. Outside, you've got to behave yourself and do what you're told, but here, you're free, maybe for the first time in your life, and you've got a gun in your hand. There's me, and Paul, Natalie and James L, and I know there are more to come. I know if we manage to survive this we'll be outlaws, we'll be hunted, but you know, it's better than being dead. Just think about it for a minute. If you join with us, what's the worst that could happen? And what's the worst that could happen if you don't? We're waiting for you!"

-

"You see? Wasn't so bad after all," said Emma. She towelled off her hair on her school jumper and grinned at Zoe.

Zoe had not stayed in her cottage that morning. After Alex left, she went out to explore her immediate surroundings now she had the benefit of daylight. There she found Alicia, Erin and Emma, and she underwent the sea-bathing ritual under Alicia's instructions. Alicia had told her that she knew a way off the island, and Zoe had invited them back to the cottage to discuss the plan further. It was an opportunity she wasn't exactly going to ignore in her current situation, and she was glad to see the other girls were as well-armed as she was. The kitchen table was bristling with weapons, and on top of the improvised gas cooker a pot of pasta (also salvaged from the cupboards) was bubbling merrily, and it looked set to be a beautiful morning.

Then came Dave's announcement, echoing faintly on the eastern shore of the island, but audible all the same. Things started to go wrong at that point.

"We're going, right?" said Zoe, already on her feet, shotgun slung over her shoulder. "We'll get there for twelve, easily."

"We're not going," said Alicia, calm and serene, stirring the pasta. Her AK-47 rested on the back of her chair, but it was never too far from reach.

"I told Alex I'd... what do you mean, we're not going?" said Zoe, taken aback by the direct statement of intention, as if Alicia was in some position to issue orders for the group.

"Has it occurred to you," said Alicia pleasantly, "that perhaps this is not all it seems to be?"

"What are you talking about?" said Erin, standing beside Zoe. She wanted to go, although she knew it would be risky to leave the cottage, and even riskier to lose Alicia with her inside track. She wanted make the group bigger and save as many as possible.

"Alex told you that Natalie and Dave are behind this, but you haven't actually seen or spoken with either of them, have you?" said Alicia. Zoe had to shake her head. "I'd like to believe Alex, but at the moment, all we have is what he said, and to be honest, I don't know him that well. Supposing – God forbid – that he wanted to do away with us. Somebody _is _playing. Katie and Nina and Mahmoud are dead. You know this. If it's Alex, it would be in his interest to lure a girl on her own to some quiet lonely place, where no-one would hear until the next report."

Emma Litchfield shuddered. Alicia had just articulated her worst fear in the game. Alicia nibbled a pasta twirl to check it was cooked through, then drained the pan in the sink and, with Erin's help, began to dish up the girls' breakfast.

Zoe was unconvinced. "It's not one helpless girl. It's four of us, with _guns._ Alex doesn't even have a weapon."

"He hasn't shown it to you, so you believe he doesn't have one. Zoe…" Alicia sat down facing Zoe, laying hands on her forearms and gazing at her intensely, "the very fact that you want to trust Alex shows that you are innocent. We are all innocent hearts, and God always protects those who remain as little children. I believe that Alex will come back from the mountain and tell us what happened, and perhaps they'll all join us, and we'll escape together. We'll know he is true of heart, and worthy of our trust."

The girls all went quiet, staring at Alicia. It didn't seem that she was talking to any one of them, and her blue eyes were vacant, fixed on a high window where the morning sun poured in and pooled on the stone slabs of the kitchen floor. Erin had been about to say something, but seeing that Alicia was not really listening, she kept silent. More than once she'd prepared the case against religion for debating club at school, holding it responsible for most of the evils in the world, and certainly a lot of needless deaths. But here, now, her words lost their logical lustre faced with the calm confidence of Alicia Brown, and the Kalashnikov that never left her side.

Alicia snapped out of her reverie. She blinked, and said, "So we wait, and it's as simple as that. We stay here and wait, and we'll be perfectly safe and comfortable until it's time to go." She smiled at everyone. "Who wants another cup of tea?"

-

The echo of Dave's voice was faint on the south coast of the island, and Sami Modha (Boy 9) had to strain to discern the words amid the roaring of the waves. He listened, bending his head to keep out of the wind. When he had heard enough to understand what Dave was planning, he jumped to his feet.

"Sorry," he said to her, "Got to go. They're in danger, and I... I'm just sorry, OK? I'll help them and tell them about you."

He took off at a run, going fast, heading north towards the mountain summit. On the cliff behind him, the bodies of Nina Haczynski and Mahmoud Ibrahim lay motionless, side by side, their wounds cleaned, their eyes closed, and their hands folded across their chests.

-

"I wonder how he did that," said Bethany Tupper.

Alex shrugged. "I have no idea. Someone up there's a bit clever, I think. That sounded like the megaphones they use for the announcements. They must've somehow hacked into it."

"Yes," said Bethany. "They must have."

They walked in silence for a short way. For the first half hour, Alex had walked and Bethany trailed him in silence, but eventually she got bored and revealed herself to him, and just after that Dave's announcement was broadcast across the island. Alex was excited to finally find another person, and told Bethany he'd take her up to the mountain top where Natalie and Dave and the others were waiting, and that she didn't have to be scared any more.

"We have to turn here," said Alex, turning away from her to scan his map. "Yeah. That path goes into D4, and that was a danger zone at seven. This route leads right up to the summit."

"So that direction is north?" said Bethany, popping a clip into her Uzi.

"Yeah… didn't you get a compass?"

"I did," said Bethany, raising the gun, "but it doesn't work."

-

The rattle of rapid-fire gunshots was clearly audible on the south flank of the mountain, where James Lewis was on watch. He jumped, glancing about wildly, and readied one of his blow-darts. He began to hyperventilate. _Not fair... I should have a weapon like that to protect myself! They can't get __**me**__… anyone else, not me!_

Abigail Dawson (Girl 2) emerged from the bushes behind James at just that moment. Her bag hung from one shoulder and her school tie and jumper were nowhere in sight, her flash of red and blonde dyed hair further bucking the uniform regulations. In her hand was a flick knife.

"What's up?" she said. She was a small girl, and her footsteps were light – so James didn't hear her until she was right behind him.

_That machine gun... Abigail, one of the bad girls... not __**me**_

He whirled round, the blowpipe pressed to his lips, and the dart shot forward with power borne from James's terror. He didn't even know what the darts did. Poison? Tranquiliser? He just had to defend himself in any way that he could.

Abigail reacted, flinging up a hand to protect her face. "Agh!" she cried, and when she looked again, the small dart was embedded in the back of her hand.

The two classmates stared at one another for a moment. Immaculately-dressed, straight-laced James Lewis, religious and hard-working and timid – and rebellious Abigail Dawson, bottom of the class, the archetypal bad girl. But who had turned on whom? Who had played the game?

"Um…" said James. He stared at Abigail. There was a little blood on her hand, but she didn't seem poisoned. She was all right. She was all right. Thank God.

"Thanks a lot," said Abigail, angrily wrenching the dart from her hand. "I heard it all – thought I'd come and see. Dave said your name... he said you were all trying to escape, so I thought I'd come. You're not supposed to be playing, you paranoid little fuck."

By now, Natalie, Dave and Paul had heard Abigail's cry and come running.

"Abby," called Dave, "what happened?"

She waved her injured hand at him. "_He _happened. Little bible-thumping dickhead. I was coming to join you…" She threw her bag back over her shoulders and turned, making ready to leave. "Won't be making that mistake again." _Better off alone. Looking after myself, depending on myself, no-one there to let me down._

"All right, Abby," said Natalie, trying to calm her. "Looks like it was an accident, right? But for fuck's sake, James, put that thing away. It's a crap weapon. If someone really attacked you, what'd you do, fire a dart at them? Darts that don't even do anything."

"Unless you scored a direct hit in the eye," added Abigail.

James looked down despondently. He shoved the darts and blow pipe into his pocket and turned away.

"Abby," said Dave, "the escape plan's still on. It'd be good to have you with us, if you'll still come."

Abigail hesitated. "Yeah, yeah," she said after a moment. "All right. I'll bite. How exactly are you going to save us all?"

Then there was the ra-ta-ta-tat of the machine gun again, much closer at hand, and suddenly, everything went very wrong.

(3 eliminated; 21 to go...)


	8. Hero, Part II

September 2015 (3½ years ago) – Class 11AT

-

"Katie?"

Recognising her friend and classmate, Lauren approached her. Her footsteps echoed down the empty hall. No-one was there but her and Katie Robinson (Girl 11 – deceased). It was the last lesson of the day and she was running late, but it was unusual to see someone just hanging around in the corridor.

Katie turned, and her eyes were red from crying, her face puckered. "Laurie, I lost it..." she said. "Lost it in the playground. And now I can't find it."

"Lost what?" Lauren was confused. Katie held up her hand, and Lauren saw that the ring with the special pink stone was gone. It had been a gift from her mother for her thirteenth birthday, expensive and precious, and she'd shown it proudly to all the girls in the class. It was the smallest size a ring could be, tiny enough for Katie's little hands, and in the gold was inscribed the words, "Best Daughter".

"Hey, it's all right," said Lauren. "We can look for it."

Katie wiped her eyes. "We'll get in trouble... we're already late for class, but I don't want to go in like this."

"Look at the state of you," Lauren said, not unkindly, and squeezed Katie's arm. "We might as well both be late."

At that point three girls came in the doors. Lauren stiffened, recognising them as her classmate Abigail Dawson and her friends, tough girls with makeup and scraped-back hair, from the year above. Katie and Lauren instinctively edged back into the cloakroom to make themselves look inconspicuous. As Abigail passed, she glanced at Lauren, a faint smile on her lips, as if to congratulate her for skiving class.

"We'll go out and look for it," said Lauren, when Abigail's posse were gone. "Doesn't matter if we miss one lesson, we've already registered present this morning. If it's not there, maybe someone handed it in at lost property."

Katie sniffled, smiling. "It's nice of you to help me," she said. Little and large, they slipped out into the playground and finely combed the tarmac for Katie's ring.

Abigail stubbed out her cigarette in the basin of the girls' toilets, the coils of smoke rising to frame her face in the cracked mirror. Her face was perfect, but she dabbed on more concealer to cover the circles beneath her eyes. Then, she raised her hand and admired her new ring. So small it had to go on her little finger, with a precious pink stone, and the words "Best Daughter" inscribed in the gold.

"Best Daughter," murmured Abigail, looking at her face in the mirror. Then she took it off and rolled the ring contemplatively between thumb and finger.

01/05/2019 – 11:43 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – E4 (Summit of central mountain)

-

They barely had time to react before bullets shattered tree branches around them, sprinkling them with a fine sawdust. _So loud, _thought James Lewis numbly, before one went straight through his cheekbone and out the back of his head. His body crashed to the ground, and was immediately pierced by several more.

"Fuck. _Run_!" cried Dave. Natalie, immobile with shock, had to be pulled along by Paul and Dave. So it was that she recognised the shooter who came running up the mountain path, spraying with her Uzi as she went. It was a girl, slim in the utilitarian socialist school uniform, white-blonde curly hair pulled back from a pale face. More recognisable was the vaguely confused facial expression that she wore most of the time, as if her mind was elsewhere.

"It's Bethany," she cried, and finally regained control of her feet and ran. Bullets ripped through the dried leaves where she'd been standing. A branch exploded in a shower of shards of wood inches from Abigail's head, making her scream and duck. They ran as best they could with bullets tearing up the ground behind them. Then they were in the open, with nothing to protect them, no cover but rock and stones, and the lone megaphone pole with its absurdly dangling microphone, swaying in the wind and picking up every sound.

Bethany sprang lightly onto the rocky slopes of the mountain summit and took aim at her classmates. The first spray of bullets mainly missed, the aim wild, but the last two bullets went right through Paul Yates's thigh. He cried out and fell.

"Paul!" Dave yelled, and ran back to help his friend, but he was beaten back as another slew of gunfire broke the stones right in front of him. Paul's torso exploded in a fountain of blood. This time, Natalie had to grab Dave's arm to drag him away.

"Wait! Lauren!" Natalie yelled. "Dave, she's not coming..."

She wasn't coming.

Lauren backed away from Bethany until she had nowhere left to run, her back against a cliff. She saw Natalie, Dave and Abigail escaping, Natalie calling her name, and resolutely ignored them, gripping her shotgun between sweating hands.

She had made her choice. She was unfit and wouldn't last five minutes trying to outrun Bethany. If she tried to go with them, she'd only slow them down, and possibly get them all killed. She could do something for them instead.

Bethany stopped for a moment to reload, dropping the clip down the rocky slope, watching as it tumbled down the scree with a clatter. It gave Lauren the moment she needed. She cocked the shotgun, bracing herself.

"Bethany," she yelled, "don't you have friends? None? Because, you know... friends matter. Natalie and Dave and Paul and James... they're my friends now, you know. You leave them alone!"

The shotgun blast went wide, all the pellets missing Bethany.

"Oh," said Lauren.

Bethany looked up with a startled expression, raising her gun, and a second later Lauren Norris's school shirt was ripped open by the bullets from the Uzi. She blinked, then fell backwards, slowly sliding down the blood-spattered rock behind her. Her head slumped forward, her hands curled around her midsection, then she lay still.

_Friends matter._

Dave, Natalie and Abigail ran at full pelt down the east slope of the mountain. "This way!" Dave cried, pulling Natalie down a steep embankment and turning a sharp hairpin bend in the path, providing them with some needed cover. But Abigail did not go that way: she threw herself down a two-metre sheer rock face and ran off in the opposite direction.

"Abigail! What are you doing?!" protested Natalie.

"Fuck you!" Abigail screamed. And then there was the gunfire again, pulverising the light soil behind them. They had no choice but to run and go their separate ways.

(7 eliminated, 17 to go...)

-

Bethany ran on. She wasn't tireless, or even unusually physically fit, but she simply hadn't noticed that she was getting tired yet. Her single-mindedness in pursuit left no room for worrying about things like that.

Will Dalton (Boy 4) dropped suddenly into her path from an overhanging embankment, a sly expression on his face, a pistol in his hand. Perhaps he had been meaning to take her by surprise. His expression turned to horror when he saw Bethany's machine pistol. She raised the gun, not even slowing down, and gave him a short, accurate blast in the chest which sent him flying backwards. Bethany skipped over his body without stopping to check for vital signs, and ran on in pursuit of Natalie and Dave.

-

Everyone on the island heard the gunfire on the mountain top, amplified as it was by the abandoned microphone. It hung there on its wire, swaying in the breeze, never again touched until a Program technician with a ladder came to take it down three days later.

Stephan Andropoulos (Boy 1) and Joe Wright (Boy 11) crept up the slope together, Stephan leading. Every so often, they had to stop so Joe could be quietly ill, always facing away from the cameras. That was why it was taking them so long to respond to Dave's call for friends to join them.

"Can't be food poisoning, can it?" said Stephan, looking at Joe's back quizzically, as they stopped yet again. "You can't get sick off eating bread and water."

"I know," Joe gasped, wiping his mouth. He swilled with water, then swallowed some. "It's not that... it's... I think... I used to get like this when I was scared or stressed out. I thought I'd outgrown it, but this isn't a normal situation, so no wonder it came back."

"I'm sure you're not the only one," said Stephan. "If you're trying to get me to admit that I'm scared too... okay, I am. But I've never puked because of it."

"Hey," said Joe, managing a watery smile, "I'm not alone now. I'm still scared but I think it'll be OK. I know you're not trying to kill me. Just so long as we don't tell each other any lies or make anything up to make it seem less scary. I don't like to think it, but... more people will die, I think. It's the game... it's started now, for real."

"That gunfire..." Stephan said, frowning, "was not a good sign."

"I know," said Joe. "Are we still going to the mountain?"

"_I'm _going. I still think our best chance is to get into a group, and Nat and Dave are solid. What you do is up to you. Think for yourself!"

"I've decided," said Joe, "I'll go with you, wherever you want. I'll try not to slow you up any more. When we're in a group, it'll be better."

-

The mountain top was entirely silent. The dust had settled on the spent bullet casings scattered all over the place, and also upon the bodies of three contestants, now eliminated from the game, never to return home after their moment in the spotlight.

The speakers began to play a slow and rich music, Fantasia on Greensleeves, which suited the eerie peace that now reigned over the mountain. In a studio hundreds of miles away, Richie Stuart pressed his lips to the cool tangy metal of the microphone and spoke.

"It's twelve o'clock. Without further ado, the names of your dead chums:

Boys #6, Alex Green!

Boys #8, James Lewis!

Boys #12, Paul Yates!

Girls #7, Lauren Norris!"

Richie Stuart paused, peering at one of the many screens in front of him, then checking the life signs monitor for one of the collars. He made a noise of displeasure.

"Hmm. Boys #4, you know who you are. Stop playing dead, please. It's not attractive."

Will Dalton sat up, distressed. Now everyone on the island knew his alive status and his approximate position. He rubbed his bruised chest beneath the punctured Kevlar, then turned and ran back up the path towards the mountain top. There might be weapons or food to be looted.

"New danger zones! Listen up. At one o'clock, H2. At three, B5. And last one, at five, I6. See how I've rewarded you for your hard work?"

It was true. The danger zones were focused on obscure bits of coast, nothing that would trouble an alert player. And Will, now hurrying south with Lauren's shotgun slung over his shoulder and three daypacks of food and water, was nothing if not alert.

-

"So many..."

Joe stared at his map numbly. Stephan prised the paper from his fingers and wrote down the danger zones and times, as Joe appeared to have no intention of doing so himself. He wrote, concealing his own shock at the names on the report. Paul Yates was a kingpin in Natalie's crew, and he knew James Lewis had been with them. The mountaintop meeting had evidently not gone according to plan.

"Alex..." said Joe. "In the school last night, after you went out... Alex said he was going to go all round the island looking for people to tell them about the meeting. He went recruiting for Nat and Dave."

"Idiot," breathed Stephan. "Looks like someone didn't want to be found."

Both of them were thinking the same thing. Dave and Natalie's names had been absent from the report. Could they have...

Could the meet-up have been a ruse to get everyone in one place – the best way for a player with a machine gun to achieve maximum kills? The rapid-fire weapon that they'd all heard could have belonged to one of them.

Joe voiced his thoughts. "You don't think..."

"No," said Stephan, with surprising force. "Not Natalie, never Natalie. She wouldn't do that, _ever. _Must have been somebody else."

He stared at the scenery for a long moment, then stood up, shouldering his pack. "Come on, we'd better get moving," he said.

-

"_New danger zones! Listen up. At one o'clock, H2. At three, B5. And last one, at five, I6. See how I've rewarded you for your hard work?"_

Josh Bradshaw (Boy 2), who watched the Program occasionally, had only now realised that Richie Stuart's voice, oil-smooth, whisky-rich, was actually really annoying.

He was in B5. That wasn't good, and already he felt his skin prickling, even though he knew activation was hours away. He feared the danger zones more than the other contestants: they brought to mind news broadcasts from the war, atomic smoke over the forests of central Europe, the devastated places where they'd dropped the bomb. Radiation did this to people. They came away suntanned, confused, saying it tasted metallic, or was that just the effect of the bleeding gums. Then they died. Here, the effect was a bit more instantaneous, but the principle was the same. Fear the enemy that you can't hear, see or smell, because that's a pretty good description of death itself.The danger zones were merciless and killed anyone who didn't get out of their way.

He'd leave B5, he decided, when he was certain _she _wasn't there. The longer she was out there alone, the greater the danger, and he wanted to find her before someone else did. He picked up his bag, tucked his Derringer into his belt, and set off down the hill away from the coast, whistling a cheerful tune. A camera nearby swivelled on its pivot, following him. Josh turned, and after making a careful choice of rock, threw it at the camera, creating a pleasing explosion of sparks and shards of glass.

_Unlike the Program_, thought Josh, _the revolution would not be televised..._

(7 eliminated; 17 to go...)

A/N: I thought it made more sense to put these chapters together, otherwise you get a pointless cliffhanger at the end of seven, and nobody likes those.

Josh's thoughts on nuclear contamination are lifted in a large part from Elena Filatova's photojournal of the Chernobyl Zone of Exclusion. Read it.


	9. Briefing

"So, Mr. Jones," the Dictator said, "Who should I put my money on this year?"

Dean Jones, Program Information Coordinator, took the proffered seat and deposited a large folder on the Dictator's desk.

The way the Program worked was thus: fifty classes were selected for the shortlist, and researchers compiled all the necessary background information about all 1500 students, not knowing which class was to be chosen. The actual selection only took place the day before the scheduled start of the Program, to minimise the possibility of information leaks, so even the Dictator did not know much about the contestants at the start of the game. Mr. Dean Jones, therefore, had the responsibility of debriefing the country's supreme leader about the group of twenty-four Year Eleven students currently occupied in killing each other off on a remote island. He had studied all their details at length and was confident he knew them pretty well. Nevertheless, any meeting with the Dictator was always a little unnerving. The man had eyes that could go right into your soul.

Dean accepted a brandy from one of the silent Party men who always seemed to hover about the place, and cleared his throat before beginning.

"Well, we've an interesting class this time round, Sir. A lot of potential. I know you like the outcome to be determined well in advance so your bet will be safe, but I have to say, the range of contestants is making for exciting television."

"Yes, I've just had it from the Ministry of Information that a high proportion of phone traffic last night involved discussion concerning the Program," said the Dictator. "Who, in your professional opinion, is going to win?"

Dean sipped his brandy. "Girl #12 seems like a solid bet, Sir."

"Ah, yes. The student with the machine gun," he observed. "Stats?"

"Her name is Bethany Tupper. 175 centimetres tall, 57 kilograms in weight, 5 kills so far, but a bit... how shall we say... dopey. She kills and forgets to pick up her victims' hand luggage. Still, our psych team have checked her file and she seems mentally sound. She hasn't displayed any sociopathic behaviour patterns or abnormal psychology previously."

The Dictator rubbed his chin. "Interesting, very interesting. If she wins, I'd like it to be made clear that she is just a normal young woman obeying government instruction, and there is no trauma or upheaval in her past. It'd make a nice change from those... troubled... young people who have won the game in recent years. Bethany Tupper, the girl who knows the meaning of duty. Yes, I could see that. Continue."

"It's been a bit of a one-woman show so far," Dean admitted, "but Boy #4 has two kills also. William Dalton, 178 centimetres, 64 kilograms. An ambitious one. Wealthy family – or used to be – and he's the worst case of personal inadequacy issues and familial pressure I've ever seen. Might go far."

"Not proletarian enough," said the Dictator. "He can only win if he displays signs of class consciousness during the game. Anyone else that's caught your eye?"

"There are a couple of others who could come into the fore, given the right circumstances." Dean flicked through his notes. "An athletic boy is usually a sensible choice. Class 11AT has a few of those... there's our megaphone man Dave Brunning, James Dyer, Sami Modha – a martial arts expert, that one – and Jack Trull. Out of all of them, I'd fancy the chances of Mr. Sami Modha, Boy #9. 180 centimetres, 78 kilograms, and hasn't shown a smidge of fear or concern about his current predicament, just arranging the bodies of his school friends into pleasing positions – closing their eyes, cleaning up the blood, that sort of thing. I for one don't like him. Creepy necrophiliac."

The Dictator leaned forward. "What about the political one? Boy #2, I believe... yes. Josh Bradshaw. I hope he is in no danger of winning?"

"Absolutely not. He doesn't appear to have a strategy so far, but if he shows promise, we can have Richie get him with the danger zones. There's good potential for penning a contestant in the north of the island, and the southern peninsula could easily be cut off, if needs be. It might look like anarchy out there at the moment, but everything is entirely under control."

"Good. Any inkling of who might be the next elimination?"

"Dave Brunning isn't looking too good. I think he's taken a bullet or two. If Bethany keeps up the chase, she'll run him right into the sea."

"No, I mean..." The Dictator folded his hands. "Tell me about the weak ones. The small, the frail, the mentally deranged. Tell me what you think might become of them. I... I want to know."

Inwardly, Dean shuddered, but kept up his pleasant demeanour. "Well, the most unlikely contender in purely physical terms is Emma Litchfield, Girl 5. 153 centimetres tall – or short, I should say, and only 49 kilograms in weight. You could just pick her up and snap her in two."

The Dictator's heavy face moved as he licked his lips. "Oh. That's nice. Tell me more."

"Certainly, sir. Of course, you'll expect the girls to be lighter and less physically strong, but I'd put Joe Wright, Boy 11, right into their category. 168 centimetres tall and with the physique of a boy five years younger. He also displays a tendency towards depression and gloominess. We have his school counsellor's record here, and then there was the suicide attempt in the early hours. If he hadn't picked up Stephan Andropoulos, he'd probably not have made it through the night. Other than that... well, Alicia Brown, Girl 1, shows a strong predilection to faith-based episodes, and this dubious claim about knowing a way off the island... I've got her earmarked for a danger zone on the midnight report tonight, if she still has those girls with guns penned in her cottage. That should get them moving."

"Very good," said the Dictator. "I commend your hard work. Leave your notes with me, if you will, and I will have a look at them. Dismissed."

The meeting was over. On his way out to his car, Dean Jones called Richie Stuart's hotel room and explained what had gone on at the meeting. He held the phone away from his ear as Richie predictably erupted with rage.

"Josh can't win, Will can't win, Alicia's out, he's telling me where to put my danger zones? You should've told him to go fuck himself. It's my reputation on the line if I interfere and kill off someone with a fan following, not his. This isn't the fucking country, it's the Program. We dragged them to that island and we put collars on their necks and we gave them guns, but we have no military presence on the ground. We can't make them do anything, we just watch the little bastards. Someone should tell that fucker that you can't control what goes on in the Program."


	10. Mercy

01/05/2019 – 13:02 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – C5 (North-east coast)

-

When she came for him, Dave did the only sensible thing he could think of. He ran.

The plan had been to have her chase him, to let Natalie escape, and then somehow lose her in the woods. Easier said than done. She just wouldn't give up. His lungs ached and his leg muscles were screaming at him, but he had to keep going. Now, after nearly an hour, he was getting near to the empty north coast of the island, where there was no cover, and eventually, nowhere else to run but into the sea. Also, B5 went danger zone at three, and in the event that he managed to escape with his life, he risked being penned in on the narrow peninsula, waiting for his collar to explode. However, that was unlikely. Bethany was gaining on him, tireless and fast, and she only needed to get so close before the bullets hit home.

Then, they did.

It didn't hurt, which surprised him. He felt a forceful thud to his left shoulder, knocking him sideways. Dave sprawled on his front on the ground and rolled, finding suddenly that his muscles had given up and he couldn't seem to regain his feet. He saw Bethany emerge from the trees and was certain that he was looking death in the face.

_It's all over for me, _he thought. As his killer approached, another face appeared unbidden in his mind, a laughing face with bright eyes and wheat-coloured hair. _Nat, whatever you do, don't stop running, _he thought. She had to survive.

Bethany jumped a stile and trotted up to Dave as he lay. The run had taken its toll on her too, and she was breathing hard, her t-shirt drenched with sweat. She shook out the empty clip from her Uzi and, in no particular hurry, rooted through her bag looking for another.

Perhaps he could try to bargain for his life. It was a long shot, but better than nothing.

"Wait," said Dave. "Please, don't. Don't kill me. I never did anything to you."

Bethany had not listened to pleas so far in the game – not that most of her victims had even had the time to plead – but here, she seemed to pause, her big hollow eyes resting on Dave.

Was it _working_? Well, reason had worked with Lauren Norris. Maybe even Bethany wasn't too far gone to listen.

"You don't have to do this," he said. "I know you, Beth... this isn't you."

She stared at him uncomprehendingly, then turned her attention away from Dave and shook her bag. Then she took everything out. Two water bottles, both with only a little left, unmarked map, Alex Green's compass, and the crumpled instruction leaflet for her gun.

"There's none left," said Bethany. "No more clips." Surprised, she looked around, realising that without clips her gun did not work, and she had no other weapons.

_No weapons?_

Dave scrambled away backwards, trying to use a rock to help him get to his feet. Bethany didn't seem to notice, so absorbed as she was in her private misfortune.

He stared at her for a moment. Skinny form swamped by an oversized school uniform, white-blonde unruly hair, look of utter confusion on her little heart-shaped face. And she'd killed so many of his friends.

At that moment, Dave was seized by a sudden violent urge to seize Bethany by the shoulders, shake the life from her, then crush her fragile neck, to tear her limb from limb, to utterly destroy her. _Serial killer, _he thought. And now unarmed. Hand-to-hand, he was sure he could take her down.

"Why aren't there any more?" she said sadly, and looked up at him, as if wanting to be told what to do.

She had killed his friends without mercy, chased him down without pity, and now she was out of ammunition and suddenly the advantage was with Dave...

...but he couldn't bring himself to touch her.

He leaned back on the rock. "That'd make me like you," he said, explaining his chain of thought out loud. "I can't do it. So, just... fuck off. Go somewhere else and don't bother me any more."

Bethany looked at him quizzically. Of course, she couldn't read his mind, so she had no idea how close he'd come to being violent against her.

"Go on, go," he said. "_Go_!"

Still staring at him with those big, confused eyes, she pushed her things back into her bag and wandered off, the empty Uzi trailing from its strap over her shoulder.

At that point, the gunshot wounds in his shoulder, which had previously been outside his notice, began to hurt. A lot. It was as if the floodgates had been opened, and suddenly his pain and anguish and exhaustion caught up with him, now he was, for the moment, out of danger. His body was too tired to keep them pushed down out of mind, and now the enormity of the events of the previous day all came crashing down on him at once.

"Shit," whispered Dave. Sagging against the rock, his head sank back, and he was aware of a perfect sky with high white clouds before the black edges of his vision closed in and he plunged into the darkness.

- Earlier -

"I can't..."

Natalie leaned against Dave, shaking as she gulped in deep breaths. She was reasonably fit, but had picked up a bad stitch in her side from the hard running and couldn't keep it up. Dave was already having to slow the pace to accommodate her, and he knew it was risky since Bethany was never far behind, and they were only just keeping out of range of her Uzi.

Natalie's designated weapon was six hand grenades, certainly useful, but only when thrown with accuracy. Bethany didn't need to be accurate. Likewise, Dave's crossbow was no match for a machine gun. In the end, he threw his weapon to run faster unencumbered.

They took advantage of a break in the gunfire to gain some ground. The path zigzagged down the mountain then forked, one path leading north towards the coast and the other turning back inland.

"Which way?" Natalie wanted to know. "This isn't on the maps..."

Dave looked down. He didn't have much time to think, but the idea had been in his mind since the attack on the mountain top.

"We'll split up. I'll try to get her to follow me, then I'll put a sprint on and lose her in the woods up here."

"But... you don't even have a weapon..." Natalie looked ashamed. "I was slowing you down, wasn't I?"

"No way. Look, we have to go. You get a head-start. Go south and try to get to the village, and I'll meet you here." He indicated a ruined church on the map, just east of the village. "If she goes after you, make the hand-grenades count."

"It's too dangerous." Natalie said, her throat tight with crying. She clung to Dave, knowing that he was right and staying together would most likely get them both killed, but wanting all the same to stay close to him.

"I'll be all right." Dave embraced Natalie, cradling her face between his hands. Natalie liked it, and hated herself for liking it, as she had a boyfriend back home who she was fairly serious about. "I can run pretty fast. I'll lose her, then I'll find you again, at the church. Go now!"

Tears stung her eyes as she ran down the woodland path in the opposite direction, tripping and stumbling over rocks. _How could everything have gone so wrong? _She thought, swiping tears from her face with the back of her hand. _I don't even know half the people I thought I knew. James... just attacked Abigail, without even __**knowing**__... and Bethany... God, how many more?_

And then there was Dave, with his warm hands and assurances and stupid fucking bravery. Why had she let him do it? Cowardly pathetic simple survival instinct. If Bethany killed him, it'd be her fault, and in her heart, she swore revenge. Not just on Bethany. On all the killers, all those who had played the game, all those who were making sure it played out just like it did every year, who wouldn't give their alternative a chance to succeed.

_Please be okay, Dave. Please._

-

01/05/2019 – 15:21 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – E2 (West coast, near the school)

-

The back of Will Dalton's map was rapidly filling up with his small, neat handwriting. He sat in a sunny clearing on the west slope of the mountain, copying out the repetitive sentences until his hand ached.

"I will kill Stephan Andropoulos.

I will kill Alicia Brown.

I will kill Dave Brunning.

I will kill Abigail Dawson.

I will kill..."

_Will Dalton._

It was a testament to his jangled nervous state of mind, to be about to write his own name on his to-do list – not an unreasonable reaction to having felt machine-gun bullets thud into his Kevlar vest, inches from his vital organs. The exercise was supposed to calm him down and refocus his mind around the goals of the game. He had to play to win, but almost getting killed had nearly made him lose his nerve.

He continued. With something like pleasure, he wrote, "I HAVE killed Nina Haczynski," and "I HAVE killed Mahmoud Ibrahim". He'd carried Mahmoud's icepick around with him for a while, but eventually decided it was useless and threw it off a cliff. He much preferred to kill from a distance, and now he had his choice of guns – his original Luger pistol, clunky but solid and still with plenty of ammo, and the nice shotgun taken from the pudgy fingers of Lauren Norris...

"I will kill Dave Brunning." Will had seen him run off with Natalie, Bethany's bullets burning their heels. He had been expecting to hear all their names on the noon report, but somehow they'd managed to escape, and in all probability were hiding somewhere and fucking.

"I will kill Shabina Ghazali." Smart-arse who thought she was better than everyone. She worked as hard as he did – but she was naturally brilliant, so she didn't need to. Why do it then? To prove a point? Hadn't anyone ever told her you were supposed to be clever but lazy? He jabbed his pen hard into the dots of her name. He would take special pleasure in eliminating that one, wherever she was.

The rest of his classmates didn't mean much to him. There were allies and rivals and victims, no longer a threat to him so of no importance. Fifteen hours into the game, and the seventeen remaining contestants would be getting tired, hungry, perhaps losing their minds from the horrible things they had seen. Will had an edge. He'd looked death right in the face and passed the test. He could handle himself. And the beauty of the game was that kills were kind of cumulative. He'd killed, so he had more weapons and supplies – resources to increase his chances of killing again. With three bread rolls inside him and more for later, Will felt nourished and satisfied and generally quite pleased with his progress as he filled up the back of his map with the certain, satisfying words.

"Lauren Norris – Eliminated.

James Lewis – Eliminated.

I will kill Sophie Orr.

I will kill Sami Modha.

I will kill Zoe Peacock..."

Then, he wasn't alone.

First the snapping of twigs under careless feet, then a flash of movement in the thicket nearby. Someone was definitely there._ You're never alone for long on this island – can't take your eye off the ball for a minute_. Good thing he'd seen them first. He grabbed Lauren's shotgun and made ready to fire.

Someone jumped down from the wooded bank and into the clearing, about ten metres away from him. It was a girl. The remaining parts of her school uniform were punkishly modified, and her hair was a tangled mess of dyed split ends. She had a flick knife in her hand, but appeared disorientated, staggering a little as if drunk. She blinked, noticing at last the shotgun aimed at her head.

_I will kill Abigail Dawson_. He took aim and pulled the trigger.

She ducked suddenly, her whole body dropping almost to the ground, and his shot went wide. He pumped the shotgun to release the shell casing and rounded on her, but she evaded him, ducking below his gun, and plunged past him. She hurtled toward the west, branches catching at her flailing arms. Will fired after her, but the tree cover was too thick, and all he managed to hit was a cluster of leaves that fell in shreds, mocking him. Abigail's running footsteps faded into the distance. After a while, it was quiet again.

Will sat down. So much for relaxing: now he was hyped again. Jumpy. _**Failure**__. No, don't think about that, there's still plenty of time, it's not a failure, I'm still doing well_. He picked up the paper and pencil once again, and began writing in a slow, deliberate hand:

"I will kill Stephan Andropoulos.

I will kill Alicia Brown..."

-

01/05/2019 – 15:25 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – E4 (Central mountain summit)

_-_

They stopped when they saw the first body, that of Alex Green, sprawled where he fell, riddled with bullets. Then they carried on, coming across the others one by one. James Lewis, Lauren Norris and Paul Yates. The mountain was a picture of desolation and violent death. There had been a battle here – or a massacre.

"Too late," said Joe Wright.

There was really nothing else to say. Will and Bethany had been and gone. Natalie, Dave and Abigail had fled in different directions. The alliance was in tatters and four students lay dead in various places over the mountain.

Stephan's throat was dry. He had never seen a dead body before. He covered his face, not wanting to look at his friend Paul in that state.

"It's OK to cry," said Joe.

"Crying's not going to fucking help anything, is it," Stephan hissed, but the tightness in his throat was making it difficult to speak. Paul was dead. They'd had some good times, him and Paul. Alex Green, too – everybody liked him. He was a nice guy. Had been. Joe leaned against him and Stephan realised that he wanted to hold somebody, anybody would do. He was a very physical person and couldn't be comforted with words. Joe fell into his arms sobbing and Stephan clung to him.

A minute later they parted. Stephan realised they were on live TV and he had his reputation to think about, and Joe realised that he was in a passionate embrace with the class Casanova.

"What are we going to do, then?" Joe said, after a long moment.

"I think..." began Stephan, but never got to finish the sentence. They were under attack.

Someone elbowed Stephan in the back, then followed it up with a hard kick to the stomach. A hand snatched his revolver as it tumbled from his belt before he could grab it. Winded, Stephan tumbled to the ground, while the assailant sprang away from him and advanced on Joe, brandishing a baseball bat.

Joe cried out as the attacker grabbed his hair, forcing his head back with the bat. Joe felt the unpleasant, weirdly cold sensation of the revolver being pressed to his chin.

"Move and you're dead," said the one holding him.

Joe thought he already was. The fact that he was still able to _think _things suggested that the attacker hadn't intended to kill him – at least, not immediately.

Stephan struggled up onto hands and knees, trying to regain his composure. He recognised him, and almost winded himself again in alarm. He had straight black hair pulled back in a pony-tail, a heavy, strong face to match his lean athletic body, and the expression of vague amusement as if his mind was always somewhere else.

"Sami?" croaked Stephan finally.

Sami Modha (Boy 9), mathematician and martial arts extraordinaire, turned back towards him, bringing Joe round with the revolver at his neck. "Hi," he said. "Um. Well, this is a bit of a bad situation, isn't it?"'

-

7 eliminated, 17 to go…


	11. Forsaken

01/05/2019 – 15:53 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – E4 (Central mountain summit)

-

"_Sami_?" managed Stephan. Joe said nothing, gripping Sami's arm which was pressed against his windpipe. He could hear moving parts in the gun, and his mind was graphically picturing what would happen if Sami pulled the trigger.

But he didn't. A long moment, and Sami slightly slackened his grip on Joe.

"Okay," said Sami, "I am going to let him go now. No sudden moves." He moved the gun away from Joe's chin and pointed it at Stephan.

Joe extracted himself from the armlock and ran to Stephan's side, staring at Sami in confusion. Stephan stood his ground, placing his body in front of Joe, but really, he had no idea what was going on either.

Sami examined Stephan's issued revolver in a leisurely manner, then uncocked it and stuck it in his belt.

"Are both of you all right?" he said, and met with uncomprehending stares from Stephan and Joe.

"...what?" said Stephan.

"Well, I'm not playing the game, so you don't need to worry about your lives. I had to do that to make sure you weren't a threat."

"Let me get this straight..." said Stephan, frowning, "you jumped me, grabbed my gun... and _you're _not playing?"

"Explain!" Joe's wits were too scrambled to be any more coherent than that.

Sami grinned widely. "Give me some credit! It may be hard to believe, but I'm not participating in a death match."

Rubbing his bruised ribs, Stephan glared at Sami. It _was _hard to believe. "Someone is," he said, indicating the bodies strewn around them.

"Well, you can see it wasn't me, since I don't have a machine gun. Okay. For what it's worth, I apologise. I didn't mean to hurt either of you. But you have to look at it from my perspective. Had I just come out into the open, you might have shot me on sight without meaning to. I had to do that to see your reactions."

"Our reactions?" Joe was even more confused now.

"Yes. They were fine. Now I'm pretty sure you're not playing."

"Finally," Stephan said, "he trusts us."

"I don't understand," said Joe.

"If you had been," continued Sami, "you would probably have more than one gun, taken from the ones you killed, and you'd have used it when I attacked you – if you were playing, you'd see every meeting as a potentially deadly confrontation, and fight for your lives. But if I want allies, I'm going to have to take a chance with my own life. Stephan, I'll give you your gun back when I'm 100 sure. I don't mind taking risks, but only necessary ones."

"Right," said Stephan. It was beginning to make sense. Sami the mathematician was appealing to logic, as he always did, and as usual, his logic worked. Stephan, feeling the pressure of the situation, the lack of sleep, the fear and the paranoia, coupled with being Joe's suicide watch, was not thinking logically. If he tried to ally with someone right now, chances are he would appeal to their emotions, and in a life or death situation, emotions were a rapidly devaluating currency.

"Allies?" said Joe.

"Yes," said Sami. "Someone's bought into the game. Actually, more than one – there are two at least who are deadly. Safety in numbers. I'll pull my weight, I think you'll find me useful."

"Martial arts man on our side," said Stephan, thinking it through for a moment, then extending a hand to Sami. He grinned. "All right! Welcome aboard!" But Joe still looked uncomfortable, and when Sami offered him a handshake, he shrank back, as Sami's palm was stained with red – on this island, the only thing it could be was dried blood.

"How do you know there's someone else playing?" quavered Joe.

"Nina and Mahmoud. I saw the bodies in K6." Sami glanced over his shoulder to the south, shaking his head as if to rid it of an unpleasant memory. He inspected his hand and tried to rub off some of the blood on his trousers. "Nina... I'll spare you the details, but someone did badly by them, and it wasn't in the style of this one. I did what I could for them – cleaned up, made them look decent. You have to remember, everyone who dies here has family and friends, and the tape of this is going to be a record of the last moments of their children." He glanced at the contorted face of Lauren Norris. "Is this how you'd want to be remembered? Scared out of your wits and in that much pain? But they were people, you know. There was so much more to them than those ugly deaths. So, before we move on, I'm going to do the same here. If only I'd got here in time to warn them."

"Yeah," said Stephan. "Us too. When we heard Dave, we came running..." Well, running in between waiting for Joe to finish throwing up, get his breath back, have moments of existential angst.

"Dave and Natalie!" he exclaimed. "I know _they're _sound. It took some balls, though..."

"Yeah," said Joe. "Breaking into the megaphones... I'd never have thought of that."

_No, you wouldn't, would you? _Stephan thought viciously, then pushed the thought down. _Cool it. Joe can't help being a weakling. You're responsible for him now._

Joe looked at the ground, but he was speaking to Sami, who listened impassively and without reaction.

"Last night I... I tried to kill myself. I can't play this game, not ever. If it's kill or be killed, I choose 'be killed', all the way. But Stephan saved me. I thought there was only one way off the island... but maybe they're right. If we team up... like Dave said, ten minds working together, we're bound to find a way."

Sami knelt beside the body of Lauren and began to clean the blood from her hands with his handkerchief.

"Do you think?" he said.

He straightened Lauren's crumpled jacket and folded her hands across her stomach, covering the bloody wound.

"What they did was really brave, but not well-thought-out. Trying to stop this Program through guns and bombs and warrior alliances isn't going to work, and has never worked. If it was easy to get off the island without playing the game, someone'd manage it every year – nothing like this pressure-cooker situation to make you really brainstorm it out. But there _is _no way. You have to change the culture – the idea that making us kill each other and putting it on prime time TV is just business as usual. In the end, all we can do is act right ourselves, show that we respect human life, _all _human life, and hope people'll see us and see what we're getting at."

Stephan looked at Joe. Joe shrugged. He actually wanted to laugh at hearing Sami speak so earnestly. What was next, a lecture in the Way of the Ninja? But it wasn't the time or the place. Sami believed in what he was doing, and his beliefs were helping him keep it together. Stephan had nearly lost it when he saw the scene of devastation on the mountain – so many dead, the plan failed, the future uncertain. Perhaps he needed to believe in something.

He looked at Lauren's still face, the thin line of dried blood that had spilt from her lips, the eyes still wide in fear, slowly filming over and going cloudy. He imagined his own face in the same attitude of death, appearing in lurid colour in the screen of the TV in his family's restaurant. If he had to die... he didn't want them to see him like that. Sami's idea made sense.

Rolling up his sleeves, Stephan knelt and gingerly began to help Sami. Joe, looking a bit green, followed him. By the time they were finished, the mountain top was no longer a scene of slaughter, but a resting place, a place of peace for the fallen. The four bodies lay side by side, hands entwined, eyes closed, as the sun began to wester and the shadows lengthened on the island.

"Come on," said Sami, straightening up as he slung his bag over his shoulder, "We're pushing our luck if we stay here any longer. It's time to go."

-

01/05/2019 – 16:01 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – E6 (Cottage on East coast)

-

Alicia Brown was losing control.

The noon announcement was heard throughout the island, and as the four girls reacted to the news, small fractures between the members of the survival society became deep divisions, until the whole foundation was shaken and Alicia's leadership in serious doubt.

Someone was playing. Four more students were dead, including Alex, who was supposed to be representing their interests at the meeting on the mountain. Now they were entirely alone in their cottage by the sea, while a dark faceless force of evil rose inland and cast its shadow over their hiding-place. No-one else knew where they were, and as time drew on, no-one would be left alive to care. All they had left was Alicia, and Alicia knew a way off the island. Or so she said.

"Can you see, it's turned out just like I said earlier," Alicia explained, calmly and slowly for those who were not too sharp at understanding. "Alex, James, Paul and Lauren are dead. They were all with Dave when he made that announcement. Dave's name, however, is not in the list. Neither is Natalie's."

Zoe, Erin and Emma were sitting around the kitchen table, pensive and upset and frightened, and listening to Alicia.

"I think we can take a fair guess at what happened," she said. "Dave, or Natalie – or both of them – set the whole thing up as a trap. They obviously got their hands on a powerful weapon, and decided this was the most efficient way of doing away with as many of us as possible. So they broadcast their location, then killed everyone that turned up." She turned to Zoe and Erin, who had previously supported the idea of answering Dave's call. "It's a good thing we didn't go, otherwise it'd be our names being read off."

"I don't believe you," snapped Erin, her eyes red from crying. "Someone else did that. Not Natalie or Dave. If we'd been there, we could have..."

Sentence unfinished, she covered her face with her hands and stormed off up the stairs. Alicia rose to go after her, but Zoe blocked her way.

"There is no escape plan, is there?" said Zoe. Face to face, Zoe was almost as tall as Alicia, and where Alicia was plump, Zoe was slim and muscle-bound. She cut a menacing figure when determined, and now appeared to be one of those times.

"I can tell what you're thinking," said Zoe in a low voice. "We hide in here while everyone else kills each other outside... then what? When we're the last four standing... you'll reveal your secret escape plan then? I can see _your_ way off the island already." She glanced at Alicia's AK, which lay on the kitchen table, never out of reach.

"Zoe!"

That was Emma, turning from the tea-urn in alarm. "You can't say things like that!"

Alicia remained absolutely calm. "There _is _a way off the island – we _can _all escape, but you have to stick with it, and you _absolutely have to trust me._ I can't explain here because of the collars, but I definitely can't save you if you've run off somewhere because you don't trust me. We're a lot better off here than we would be outside," she said.

"I don't care," said Zoe. "You're wrong, you don't listen to any of us... and I'd rather take my chances." She picked up her bag and shotgun. "I'll be going now."

"No!" cried Emma. "You'll die if you go outside! Please, don't!"

"I'm a big girl now," said Zoe, slinging her gun over her shoulder. "I think I can handle myself."

"Of course, that's up to you," said Alicia, "but I'd strongly advise against it. Don't you _want _to leave this island alive? Don't you want to see your family again? The only other way off the island is to play their game, kill everyone, and try to win. If you think that's a better idea, then you're welcome to leave. But you're not welcome to join me again if you go now. In fact, if you tried to come back, we would have to take... action, to stop you. To protect ourselves, you understand."

Zoe hesitated. Erin came back down the stairs, hearing the discussion.

"Now," said Alicia, her voice conciliatory. "We need firewood and any other supplies we can find. Being cooped up's no fun. How about I hold the fort here while you guys have a look around outside? Get some fresh air. And if any of you decide that you don't want to be part of my escape plan... now is your chance. I will be praying for you."

Alicia held the door open, watching benevolently as Emma, Erin and Zoe left. The mutiny was quashed. She knew, with the certainty of the mathematician, that every one of them would be back.

-

01/05/2019 – 17:43 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – I3 (Harbour-master's house, west coast)

-

In the dark there was no sound but their breathing and the soft beep of the GPS tracking device. On the screen, a pink circle printed with the number 10 entered the edge of the screen, tracing a slow path towards their own symbols on the map.

"Girls #10... that's Natalie," said one of them.

"Coming right towards us," said the other. "What do you think we should do?"

"Getting her to go away would make sense."

The smaller of the two girls stood up. She picked up her bag from the kitchen table, where it lay beside their water rations, food - and two sharp knives lying side by side.

"Okay. I'll try it."

Stretching, she pushed the door open slightly, peering out into the outside world, then she stepped out into the afternoon sunlight.

Natalie Rankin hadn't rested all afternoon. Her trainers were rubbing and she was sweating profusely. But she couldn't afford to stop, not even for a minute. Even when she was reasonably sure she'd shaken off Bethany, she kept walking at a brisk pace, taking a roundabout route to muddle her trail, glancing around her as she went. Natalie was a confident girl and up until now she had never gone about feeling that evil eyes were watching her, or that someone was lying in wait for her. It wasn't pleasant.

Worse, however, was the feeling that some harm had befallen Dave. His plan had worked, in that Bethany had gone after him and not Natalie, but every time she heard the typewriter-rattle of Bethany's Uzi, she stopped, her stomach flipping. And then the gunfire had stopped. Natalie could not be certain what that meant, but she could not think about it, because most likely, it meant that Bethany had got Dave, and didn't need to shoot any more. And when she thought about that, she was nearly overwhelmed by the hopelessness of the situation, so she forced back tears and tried not to think about it.

Finally, after taking a long and winding detour through the woods, Natalie found herself on the edge of the village. Once it had afforded residence to a hundred or so inhabitants, almost all connected with the fishing industry. Since all that had finished years ago, and the people left, the place had a comfortably historic feel to it, the buildings and cars from a time before the dictatorship, before the war... before the Program. She walked through the empty streets and heard the cries of the seagulls, and had never felt so alone in her life.

There was a tall house which stood alone, not far from the harbour wall. Weary and afraid, Natalie approached it. It was marked on the maps as 'harbour-master's house', but the harbour-master had clearly not tended to his home in some time. The garden was overgrown, lashed with the debris of long-ago spring tides, and the windows of the house were dark and unwelcoming.

And there was someone there. Blue school clothes standing out starkly against the gloomy scenery, a face, kind eyes. A girl.

_Oh, thank God, a friend_. Natalie hadn't realised how lonely and scared she'd been until she saw Sophie Orr (Girl 8), and almost went weak at the knees with relief.

Sophie raised a hand in welcome.

"Natalie," she said.

"Oh, Soph," Natalie cried, "I'm so glad... Bethany... you heard the last report... it was her. I'm so glad it's you. She's playing to win..."

Sophie stood still in the garden. Then, she raised her hand, and her hand held a black gun. It looked like standard police issue, plasticky and cheap. In Sophie's small hand, it looked like a toy. But in the Program, all the guns were real.

"So am I. You're not welcome here," said Sophie.

Natalie froze.

"What? Soph... I don't... I don't understand..."

"This house is taken. You should find your own," she said, her voice cold and toneless. "It's kill or be killed. I'm waiting it out. I don't want company."

She took a step towards Natalie, keeping the gun at eye level. "You've been warned."

Natalie stared at Sophie uncomprehendingly for a few more seconds. Then, she turned and ran down the garden path and away from the house, running blind away from Sophie. She didn't stop until she reached the sea, and finally, on the beach in the glow of the evening sun, she broke down and cried and cried and cried.

_Even Sophie... God, I thought everyone would be keen on my plan, but... am I... the only one __**not **__playing?_

Sophie Orr went back inside the house.

"She's gone," she said.

Shabina Ghazali (Girl 3) smiled.

"It's a good thing she didn't call your bluff."

Sophie looked at the cap gun in her hand. Had she fired at Natalie, it would have released a small puff of smoke and a cute popping sound. Still, even the effect of that might have caused her to die of shock. In the Program, everyone knows that all the guns are real, and that can be used to your advantage if you happen to find a cap gun lying about the house. Other than the knives, which still lay on the kitchen table side by side, Sophie Orr and Shabina Ghazali had no weapons. They had no intention of needing them.

-

7 eliminated, 17 to go…


	12. Dave Brunning

He slept, and with sleep came dreams.

Year 7. Everything was easy back then. Not too much work, no exams looming on the horizon, no teenage angst. Time to see people, do things, generally enjoy the transitional time between childhood and teens, and the strange new world of high school. Dave started playing guitar that year, he remembered, and the room was the room of his childhood, messy, strewn with comics, guitar tabs, socks, crumpled clothes. And he'd invited someone over, by the looks of it. A girl? What?

Dave wasn't like Stephan, reputed to have lost his virginity aged eleven at Scout camp. He didn't start getting interested in that stuff until at least midway through Year 8, and had only had one semi-serious girlfriend. He looked at the mess around him. It was a bit embarrassing that a girl would see the state of the place, but she didn't pay it any attention. She just sat on the bed, so slight and small of frame that her feet were swinging off the ground, and stared in front of her, glassy-eyed and quiet.

"Bethany?"

He didn't realise who it was until his dream-self said her name. Of course. In four years you could change a lot – Bethany had grown a good six inches, and had filled out a little – aged twelve, she was straight up and down, and there was nothing feminine about her, except for the unusual fluffy whitish hair which she had in pigtails, incongruous with the pale serious face. He hadn't known her in Year 7, as she only transferred into their school part-way through Year 9, so he was creating her appearance in his mind.

"No more clips," she said. "Why aren't there any more?"

He was more impetuous back then. Who said you couldn't hit girls? That only kicked in once you were bigger and stronger and it wasn't a fair fight. Dave seized her by the wrists and hauled her to her feet – she was as light as a puppet and just as unresisting.

"Why?" he yelled in her face. "Why are you doing it? You want to win? You know what happens to the winners. You don't _want _to end up some smackhead in a bedsit in the Annexes, do you? Tell me why!"

"Because they told me to," said Bethany.

"No, not good enough!" He gripped her by the shoulders and shook her. "If they told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it? There are some things – some things you _just shouldn't do_, no matter who tells you to. Can't you understand that?"

Bethany was not listening, her face as expressionless as a talking doll's, and she hung limply as he held her up. "Because they told me to. Because they told me to. Because..."

Dave dropped her and ran from the room in disgust. She carried on repeating the words like a broken cassette player, and her toneless voice followed him down the stairs.

Mum and Dad were in the kitchen, watching the news together as they ate their dinner. The TV blared with war footage, then that cold day near Christmas of his seventh year, when the Prime Minister, now the Dictator, dissolved parliament and placed the country under a permanent state of emergency. Why had he thought he was in Year 7? This was years ago, and at the time, he had been barely aware of the events, which seemed to have little importance at the time. He was only just starting junior school.

"Mum?" he asked – did his voice really used to sound like that? "What's happening?"

"Davey," she said, rubbing his hair, yet somewhat vacantly, as she was still staring at the screen. "I've invited some of your friends round for tea. Why don't you go and say hello to them?"

"Who?" said Dave, feeling a strange dread for a reason he could not comprehend.

"Look, here they are," said his dad. He pushed Dave towards the hallway. "Go and say hello to your friends."

Nina Haczynski stood facing away from Dave, one hand to her neck. Blood coursed down her arm and dripped onto the carpet, but Dave's mum and dad didn't seem to mind. When she spoke, her voice was a choked whisper that was peculiarly horrible to hear.

"Dave..." she hissed, "What're you doing here?"

Dave shrank back against the wall, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Nina was dead – he remembered! Her name was read out! Dead. Yet here she was.

"I... I live here?"

"I mean, this place." Nina gestured around her with a bloodied hand. "I don't think you're supposed to be here."

"That's right," said Mahmoud Ibrahim, who stood behind Nina. Daylight shone through two ragged holes in his chest. "You shouldn't be here yet. It's too soon."

"What do you mean?" cried Dave. He felt the swoop of fear of a nightmare as the others joined their ranks – James Lewis, Lauren Norris, Alex Green, Katie Robinson... all dead and horrible to behold, but acting just as they had in life. Lauren and Katie still stood together, arm-in-arm, and it still looked ridiculous because of the height difference. James Lewis, still sparrow-like and puny, flicking through his miniature Bible. And... someone else. Floppy caramel-coloured hair, languorous limbs, twirling a drumstick in a blood-spattered hand...

"Paul?"

Paul Yates didn't look very different from how he had been in life, except for the bloody pattern of gunshot wounds mottling his jacket in a darker colour, and the one that had gone through his thigh, incapacitating him – and giving Bethany the opportunity to finish him off as his friends ran away. He limped over to Dave and laid a cold hand on his shoulder.

"Twelve more hours yet, mate," said Paul. "Not your time."

"I don't understand," said Dave. His voice was deeper again – he was sixteen years old, now, wasn't that strange? Sixteen, in Year Eleven... that meant something.

"Paul... I'm sorry – I tried..."

Nina smiled despite the blood running from the corners of her mouth. "Sure you did. See you soon, Dave," she said. "Think your mum's calling you." And the two of them burst into fits of giggles.

Dave turned away from the haggard shapes of his dead friends, back to the kitchen.

"Davey, come on!" his mother insisted. She was wearing her factory uniform and carrying a teapot, and the sun was going down outside. It was the end of the work-day – family time, usually spent round the TV.

"Come and join us. It's time for the Program."

"The Program?"

"Yes! Hurry up or you'll miss the start." She took him by the hand to guide him to his seat. "It's going to be a really good one, this year."

"No!" cried Dave, jerking away and knocking over a chair. "Mum, I don't want to... please don't make me!"

But Dave's parents seized him by the shoulders and forced him roughly in front of the TV, made him watch, and then there was the salt wind, the smell of mould and trees and cordite, and Richie Stuart's voice...

And he was back.

"Good evening, boys and girls! It's 1800 hours, and time for the third report!"

This time, the music was _Concierto de Aranjuez_. It rang out from the speakers as the sun sank into the west and, for a few minutes, bathed the island in golden sunlight. Dave squinted and brought up a hand to shield his eyes.

_What?_

Richie Stuart continued. "The weather has treated you well so far, with this nice easterly, keeping it cool but the sun's shining. Watch out for the rain coming in tomorrow, though. You might want to visit the village to invest in a raincoat. Don't all rush the houses at once, though, or you might have an unpleasant experience with 'shopper's rage'."

He was cold to his bones and barely had any strength, and his legs had seized up from the running. But he couldn't give up. Hauling himself into a sitting position, Dave's frozen fingers fumbled for his map and pen.

He thought of his dream and the gruesome shades of the seven victims so far._ Third report... danger zones and... names. Oh God, how many more?_

"No-one has been eliminated in the last six hours," said Richie Stuart.

Dave's heart leapt. _Natalie, _he thought. _She's safe._

"I can't say I'm proud of this afternoon's output, but I've been up as long as you have and I appreciate how you might be getting tired. Let's keep this break nice and short, have a nap, maybe a snack, and work hard through the night, shall we? Danger zones this evening will be E2 at 1900, K6 at 2100 and D7 at 2300. Don't get caught napping in any of them."

-

7 eliminated, 17 to go...

-

My beta-reader said this didn't read like a dream, in that it made too much sense. I tried to adjust it to make it more dream-like but my own dreams are pretty logical, so it was difficult. In the end I decided just to leave it as it was.


	13. Anarchy

01/05/2019 – 18:34 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – E6

-

Winning the Program had its consolations. One was an exemption from national service, the loathed duty of every citizen when they reached eighteen. Perhaps some of the past winners were thinking of this as they hewed their way through their classmates – if they could only win, they'd have a life of ease and comfort and never be hauled off into the army. And, of course, the other contestants – their victims – would be exempt of every national obligation from the moment of their death onwards.

Josh Bradshaw (Boy 2) considered that, in a way, he'd got his wish. One way or another, he was never going to have to serve.

The Program. Who'd have thought it? The ultimate imposition of the government on his individual freedom – an imposition that was likely to kill him at the age of sixteen, with nothing achieved but a little small-scale anarchy, and broadcast into the living rooms of every idiot in the country. He thought he'd be more angry than he was. He found that he objected to his probable televised death no more than he objected to the surveillance camera outside his front door, the inexplicable closing of streets for military parades, the occasional disappearance of neighbours, teachers and people he found interesting – the Program was a drop in the ocean of injustice, and if he had to go through life pretending to be a model citizen – dyeing his hair blue and writing the odd bit of seditious graffiti and calling it rebellion – he'd go insane. Here, at least, there was no eulogising the dictator, no secret police, no curfew. Strangely, for the first time in his life, he was free.

"National service? Sure, I'm up for it," Stephan Andropoulos had laughed, during a discussion of their future after high school. "It's only a year, how bad can it be? Anyway," he said, winking, "I'm strictly in it for the benefits. It's a well-known fact that men in uniform _get more_."

The corridor between the science block and the languages department wasn't long, but they had already passed two of Stephan's ex-girlfriends, and the leisurely pace that was going to make them late enabled him to check out the talent on the way to class.

"Oh yeah? It's great until you get shipped off to the Annexes to clean up radioactive waste... a guy who glows in the dark, what girl could resist?" Josh grinned. "Yeah, you'd get some... just not with girls. It's like the Navy, you know. The best you can hope for is up against the wall with the Sergeant Major."

Stephan gave him a well-deserved shove, but Josh bounced off the wall and grabbed onto his schoolbag. A bevy of girls from the year below parted to make way for them.

"Fuck off, Joshie. You're forgetting that we're gender equal now. Chicks in khaki... female officers..." Stephan licked his lips.

"Keep on dreaming," laughed Josh. "Me, I'm going to apply for a mitigating circs exemption." He smiled brightly, which had a disturbing effect on his large eyes, the pupils seeming to float in space, his mouth grinning crazily. "All you have to do is pretend to be insane."

Stephan had slapped him round the back of the head. "You won't even have to pretend. How long would blue-haired anarchy boy last in the army anyway?"

_Blue-haired anarchy boy. _Stephan was right. He was something of a liability. By mouthing off at school about his politics, he was known, and he couldn't even buy spray paints without intrusive questions from the shopkeeper. No member of the real resistance would approach him, and his fantasy of being pulled into a van and taken to their secret bomb-building hideout would never come to pass. As for how long he'd last in the army...

Not much longer than in the Program, he imagined.

So he planned to make his last few days on earth as enjoyable as possible, leave it to chance. If he won, he won. If he died, he died. All he knew was that he'd put his freedom to good use.

He looked down. He was on a high ridge, overlooking a sloping valley and then zone E6. The sun was setting and a cool wind from the east rustled through his hair. It'd be nice to find somewhere to spend the night, he thought. And, as if on cue, a pale wisp of grey smoke sprung up from the south. His luck was in. Fire meant a person, maybe more than one, even – dare he hope – preparing nice hot food. They said there were supplies on the island left over from the military occupation. Perhaps someone had struck lucky. _Perhaps it was her_.

Tucking the Derringer into his belt, Josh jumped to his feet, then set off at a brisk pace down the valley side towards the source of the smoke.

-

"_Do go," pleaded Julian. "It'd be awfully good of you."_

"_Finally!" explained the tomboyish George(ina). "You trust one of the girls to do something!"_

"_Oh, I promise, I'll do it right," Emma Litchfield (Girl 5) insisted. "I'll get so much firewood that we'll be able to make a real camp fire."_

"_It'll be super," said Anne. "We can tell stories. Don't be long!"_

Emma Litchfield (Girl 5) ran down the soft grassy slope, unable to resist a little skip as she went. The evening sun was pleasant on her face, and she was doing something useful and satisfying. She understood her situation now – she was Emma Litchfield, runaway, surviving on an island with her friends – and she knew how it worked in the island stories, old books she hoarded and read over and over again. Shipwrecked, kidnapped, runaways – it didn't matter how the kids got there – as long as the other essential ingredients were intact: the island, the camaraderie of friendship against the odds, and that slight overhanging threat from the outside world beyond their secret special conspiracy.

There was danger in these stories, no doubt about that. But whatever happened, she knew the good girls would always win in the end. Emma patted her Beretta, wedged into her trouser pocket, to be sure. As long as she was with Alicia, she'd be fine. Alicia would protect her... Alicia wouldn't have let them leave the cottage if it was dangerous. And even if there was danger, she could handle it. She could be tough, like Zoe, and clever, like Erin...

She'd be able to go home, go back to school with her friends, and everything would be all right again. Life would be normal again. Music and movies and magazines and island stories and sleepovers and the future looming, college and military service and work... close, but not yet. It was easy to forget about things like that, and live in a happy world made of fantasies.

Then, something happened which threw her back into the real world, the cruel world where she was Girls #5 Litchfield, Program contestant, and the island was a cold bleak place where _nowhere was safe _and her dead classmates' names were read off at six-hourly intervals.

There was a boy standing in front of her. He didn't fit into the world in which she imagined herself, his cobalt uniform too modern, too evocative of England under the dictatorship, and he had a gun. _No, that wasn't right_.

She knew this boy, from... before. She recognised his sharp elfin face with the upturned nose, wild eyes, unkempt curly hair dyed an arresting shade of blue at the front. The legend stencilled onto his camouflage backpack was BRADSHAW – BOYS #2. _Josh Bradshaw, the anarchist, the one who knows how to make bombs and wants to fight the government. The dangerous one..._

"Josh?" she squeaked.

"Oh, it's you, Emma," he said. "Thought you were someone else." It was odd, he realised, to see Emma alone. He thought of her as part of the Erin-Emma unit, rarely if ever found by herself.

"Didn't you find Erin?" he said.

Emma stared at him as if hypnotised. She slowly raised her right hand, pointing the gun at him.

_Even her... fuck. Perhaps more people than I thought bought into this shit._

"Put it down, right now," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you, just put the gun down."

_Lies, _she thought. _He will hurt me. _

"No!" she cried, holding the gun steady, aiming at where she supposed his heart was. As long as she had the gun, he wouldn't... he couldn't...

_Lost her fucking mind. What a surprise. _"I see why you're alone, now," Josh spat, pulling his Derringer. It was a stand-off, Josh and Emma holding each other at gunpoint. Josh knew he was outclassed in terms of firepower, and besides, only had one bullet. And Emma, by the looks of things, had lost her mind to the game. She really would kill him. Cold sweat beads began to form on his back.

"Put it down, walk away, don't make me do something you'll regret!" he blustered. "Emma, are you listening?"

Emma's hands began to shake, her aim barely steady. Her nightmare was coming true. _Don't make me do something you'll regret. _Here she was, alone and defenceless, and he had her at gunpoint... he'd make her... force her... he'd make her do _things. _Bad things. Things that never happened in island stories, but there was always the threat... it made it exciting, but only if you knew someone would come... save her...

Perhaps nobody would come?

No adults to make things all right... not even Alicia could help her now. She was... alone.

Not in an island story any more. This was the Program, where being good didn't cut it. She had to rely on herself.

"Just put it down," repeated Josh. "It's OK. I won't..."

She sprang back. "No!" she screamed, and, squeezing her eyes shut in terror, Emma fired three shots in rapid succession. She heard one thud into the bark of a nearby tree, startling a wood-pigeon from its nest with an irate coo and a fluttering of feathers.

The other two made a sound she didn't recognise, a heavy, organic rip-thudding sound – and a cry of pain that hardly sounded human. She couldn't understand what had made that sound until she opened her eyes.

Josh gripped his side, his face contorted, and an elaborate string of swear-words spilled from his grimacing lips. Slowly, he prised the hand away, and Emma went pale as he studied his scarlet fingers, the blood running down his wrist, the blood that oozed through his shredded school jacket and dripped from its hem.

She'd never seen so much blood before. "Oh," she said, her voice a shocked whisper. She felt dizzy, stumbling backwards, knowing she had to get away from him. _I killed someone, _she thought, dazed. _Me! They'll know!_

"_Erin!"_

"_Oh, thank God… Emma!"_

_They embraced like children, weapons and bags tossed aside, their tear-damp faces pressing together._

"_Promise me you're not playing this game," Erin insisted._

"_I promise… I couldn't… never…" she'd cried, and they held each other, shaking and crying and rocking until Alicia found them. And Alicia made it all right. They'd get off the island – only the pure of heart. Only the ones that __**didn't**_ _kill…_

_She'll know…_

Wincing, Josh leaned against a tree, pressing down on the gunshot wounds as the blood spilled over his fingers.Emma stared at him. Could he survive a wound like that? She didn't think so. But worse than that were his eyes. He seemed to look right through her, searing the terrified huddled person within, marking her out as his killer for everyone to see.

"You _would _play, wouldn't you," he uttered between clenched teeth. "Too weak... no other way." And he fumbled with slick fingers for his gun again. "Kill you... fucking psycho..."

Sheer terror took over. Dropping her bundle of firewood, Emma turned and fled.

-

7 eliminated, 17 to go...

-

My favourite island story, after BR, is _Bright Young Things _by Scarlett Thomas. I recommend it. Although Girl #5 up there's obviously been reading a lot of Enid Blyton.


	14. Antipathy

01/05/2019 – 18:34 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – E6

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. _Josh stumbled a few steps, then gave up, leaning heavily on a tree. He was never going to be able to catch Emma, injured as he was, and she was a fast runner, darting away across the dim landscape towards the plume of smoke. Anyway, he wasn't sure that, if he _had _chased her, and caught her, he could have seen it through. _Could he kill at all_?

_Sophie, _he thought, folding his jacket into a makeshift bandage and wrapping it tightly round his middle. Not thinking clearly, the idea of infection didn't enter his mind. His thought process ran something like blood life, and as long as he could slow the blood-flow long enough to find her, it'd be all right. _Sophie, where the hell are you?_ _Will I find you before someone else does?_

-

"Has she still not said anything?" said Zoe Peacock as she came in, hauling a bucket of well water with her. She put it down and rubbed her arms. Now the light had gone, it was getting cold outside, and she didn't like the long shadows in the garden.

"No," said Alicia, "but it's OK. She'll talk when she's ready."

When Emma reappeared at the cottage just after seven-thirty, without her jacket or any firewood and nearly hysterical, Alicia had taken her in and pushed tea on her, and tried to glean from her what had happened. Hearing the gunshots, the others had all hurried home, but by the state Emma was in, assumed that she'd been attacked and managed to escape. Only Alicia guessed at the truth, but she kept silent and tried to comfort Emma as best she might.

Emma sat at the table, staring at her teacup, and rocking back and forth as Alicia and Erin sat with her and passed her tissues from their collective supply, waiting patiently for her to tell them what had happened.

"Josh," she said, and burst into fresh tears, burying her face in her arms.

Erin looked stunned. "What, Josh Bradshaw?"

"Did he do this to you?" Zoe leaned in close, trying to untangle the shaking bundle of mussed hair and arms that was Emma Litchfield. "Was it him?"

"I... it was me. He wasn't playing – he said he wasn't. He didn't reach for his gun until I.. I... got scared... shot him. He's bleeding so much... on his own out there... what if I killed him?" She turned to her best friend Erin for comfort, but Erin turned away, pressing her hands to her lips.

"Erin?" Emma pleaded. What she needed more than anything was her best friend's approval.

When Erin turned back to Emma, she offered anything but. "Why did you do that?" she shouted.

Zoe stepped in between them. "Hey, it's okay. Ever heard of self defence? What exactly was she supposed to do?"

"Show a bit of trust, maybe? Why did you do it? You didn't shoot me when I found you."

Alicia commanded attention with a simple raised hand to hush the other girls' voices. "You did the right thing," she said.

"No," said Erin, getting a rein on her anger. "I disagree. We said we weren't playing. Shooting others pre-emptively is playing, like it or not... am I the only one who can see something wrong with this? Emma _shot _him! He could be _dying_! What happened to _talking _to people?"

"We all know what boys do. Ever watched the Program?" said Alicia. "It's always boys. They do things to girls, especially girls on their own."

"Not Josh!" Erin protested. "I know him... we're on the debate team together. I know he's a bit... you know, a bit crazy, but he wouldn't. I know he wouldn't. For fuck's sake, he thinks rapists should be subjected to mob justice! Remember when the Minister of Education assaulted that student, and they let him off? He was _enraged. _I've never seen him so pissed off."

"Get real," said Alicia, rubbing Emma's back. "Where's her jacket? Why was he alone? The only ones still alone by now are playing the game. Josh has a gun – we know this. He would have killed Emma, and probably raped her, either before or after. Would you be willing to let that happen, just to prove a point?"

The girls were quiet. There was no arguing with Alicia, particularly when what she said made sense. And in the moment of calm, Emma looked up, clear-eyed again, and said,

"It wasn't my fault. He was going to... wanted to... but I made him stop."

Alicia smiled triumphantly and enfolded Emma in her arms. "I'm so proud of you. You did what you had to do, and thanks to you, we're all safe." Alicia patted Emma's head and said off-handedly, "I don't think any of us should leave the cottage from now on. There's a new danger zone near us which comes into effect at eleven, and I don't want anyone else wandering into trouble."

"Licy," said Emma, smiling tearfully. "No way do I want to go out there again."

The guttering lamplight illuminated them in their embrace, while Zoe and Erin stood in the shadows and glanced at each other.

-

Abigail twisted her hands in her pockets, suddenly shy beneath the receptionist's baleful glare. "No, miss. I didn't think there was a reward. I just wanted... wanted to give it back. So... whoever it belongs to... can have it."

The receptionist smiled, but the rest of her face did not seem to move. She leaned forward and plucked the silver ring with the little pink stone from Abigail's fingers.

"I think, Abigail, that you stole this ring, didn't you? And then you felt guilty, and thought you'd pretend you found it. I don't like girls who tell lies, do you, Miss Bradley?"

Miss Bradley, the office assistant, shook her head. "Oh, no. Liars are the worst kind of children."

Tears sprang to Abigail's eyes and her throat was tight. "It's not a lie, miss" she protested. "It's true. Why don't you believe me?"

"Believe you? It'd hardly be the first time you stole something, would it?" The receptionist efficiently popped the ring in a little plastic bag to be filed as lost property. "At least this time you thought to give it back. It wouldn't have suited you anyway. This is a very nice ring."

Abigail stood for a moment, cringing, then turned and slunk off down the corridor. Once out of sight, she fled.

"No running indoors!" the receptionist shouted after her. Then the two women exchanged glances. Twelve years old, and already stealing - definitely not a nice girl. Under socialism, of course, everyone was officially equal. But the Dawson name was a byword for petty crime, violence, underachievement, chaos in the home. Coming from a family like that, you couldn't expect her to be any good.

"I gave it back!" she cried, but the figures of the teachers stood still, motionless, as if they were made of wood. And she was alone in a circle of trees with _faces_, the faces of rival gang leaders, twisted and puglike, snarling teachers, sinister replicas of her classmates with demon faces and drawn weapons, closing in on her...

And then there were only trees. What she had taken for their voices was just the dry wind hissing through the grass.

And the voices.

"Abby, you're in a right mess now..."

She knew that voice. _Remembered it..._

"Dad?" Abigail croaked through a dry mouth.

"You're on an island, use your common sense! You've got to get home, your mother needs you," came the voice again, imperiously cheerful.

_It couldn't be... he couldn't be here_. She was on the Program, on an island... tight security... no-one could reach the Program island. No-one could leave. And anyway, she remembered with a cold, sour feeling in her stomach, her dad wasn't alive. He couldn't be talking to her, he'd turned from the jolly man she remembered, sharp in his military uniform but always with a wink for the children, into the bald wraith in the hospital, then into the neat square plot in the graveyard with the short fat white stone and the plastic flowers (real ones wilted). Five years ago.

Her mother needed her. Needed someone, as she'd fallen to pieces after Dad's death, and was in no state to run a household. But Abigail learned to manage. She got her brothers to school, usually on time, and she made them all something to eat in the evenings. She cleaned up the house and hid mum's bottles so it looked like they were holding it together. And they were, just. But Abigail was a kid, and life was frustrating. No army widow's pension to live off, since her parents hadn't been married, so they were always broke, the teachers didn't like her, school was boring... she was just a kid, and had to get her kicks somehow. They rejected her, hypocrites all of them in their supposed classless society, so she rejected them.

"I'm watching you, just like I said I would," he said, but his voice was difficult to hear over the roar of the twin suns in the syrupy sky.

_Watching me? _Abigail spun round. Cameras! She faced the nearest one and cried out to him.

"Dad, where are you? I can't... can't find you!"

Amused, Richie Stuart picked up his microphone and flicked the switch that connected with the speakers on the east coast of the island. His booming voice echoed all around her, so sudden that she jumped with fright.

"Girl #2? I'm not your dad. You're hallucinating. Remember that blow-dart from Boy #8? Tipped with hallucinogen. You're lucky he didn't pick one of the poisoned ones, but it's nasty stuff all the same."

Abigail's head jerked round. Hallucinations... yes. There'd been a lot of them, ever since the mountain top. Fucking Dave and Natalie, trying to get them all killed... how stupid were they? They'd got her into this mess then run off. No more working with them. But this wasn't a hallucination. She could _hear _him. His voice echoed down the valley. It was _real._ Different from the other voices. He was really here...

"I'm coming!" she cried, and ran wildly in the direction of the sound, a megaphone pole some two hundred metres away to the south. Gulls wheeled in the air and the waves roared. Abigail screamed, "Daddy, I'm coming, wait for me!"

She dropped her bags as she didn't need them any more. The collar around her neck melted into insignificance as her feet left the ground. Dad was there, in his uniform, the brass star on his cap glowing in the sunset, his arms open wide. She felt unseen hands lift her up, heard a chorus of welcoming voices. And mum was there as well, _smiling_, and all her brothers, her boyfriend with his motorbike, friends she never knew she had... _Come on home_, they seemed to cry.

She ran faster, carried on the wind, light as air. No-one could catch her now. They were so close, she could almost feel their arms around her. No more bad girl. They saw past it... they loved her.

And then, she died.

The second Abigail crossed into E2, there was a tiny click in the mechanism of the collar, a red light came on for a brief moment, then the whole thing was torn to pieces by the triggering of the bomb inside it. It threw her head back, breaking her neck in an instant. Shrapnel and blood were propelled into the air, marring the beautiful sunset with violent death.

Abigail's body slowly crumpled, one joint at a time. She came to rest on her front, one hand reaching out vainly in front of her, a pool of blood from her destroyed neck spreading out from beneath her body.

"I tried to warn her," said Richie Stuart, and threw back a double espresso, making a face at the bitterness. Then he remembered the sugar, which he tipped from the packet directly into his mouth. He munched on the crystals, and said, "Not much more I could have done, really."

"You could have not interfered at all," said Anna, and she turned away from him, not moving her eyes from the screen as pink bubble text popped up on the screen, incongruous against the amber sunset, the dark forest, the blood.

Girls #2 Abigail Dawson, Eliminated.

-

8 eliminated, 16 to go...


	15. Significance Test

01/05/2019 – 21:32 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – F3

"We'll stay here tonight," said Sami, after pacing out the area several times. He tossed his bags and sat down among them, gesturing Stephan and Joe to join him.

Despite the dark, an abundance of crunchy dry leaves on the ground meant that they'd have a reasonable chance of hearing anyone creeping about nearby. To Stephan, it looked about the same as the rest of the island's wooded interior, and they had not moved far from the mountain. But when he suggested going further, Sami disagreed.

"Best not to move about too much," he said. "So soon after an announcement, people'll be moving out of the tagged zones, and a hostile encounter gives us, crudely speaking, a 50 chance of dying. Two people, two weapons. Maybe with me... a bit less, perhaps... and then there's the gun. Lots of unknowable variables at play here, but anyway, not odds I'd gamble on. Now, anybody hungry?"

He fished in his bag, removed a half-eaten bread roll, and pulled a small piece off, which he nibbled while staring into the distance, as if, behind those vacant eyes, he was still calculating percentage odds of survival. Stephan and Joe took out their bread and water, and set about the task of their evening meal while Sami thought and Stephan played with his mobile phone.

Then Joe broke the silence. "Do you _really_ believe that?" he said.

Sami blinked, as if awakening. "Believe what?"

"Like you said before..." Joe perched uncertainly on his backpack. "That we won't escape from the island. That we're all going to die."

"Yeah, I was wondering about that," said Stephan.

"Well..." said Sami, stretching, "yes, I believe it, but it's just statistical analysis that brings me to that conclusion."

"You what now?" said Stephan.

Sami began to explain. "Do you watch the Program?" he asked.

Stephan wasn't going to admit that he did, occasionally, for the girls. Not something he was particularly proud of. "No," he said.

"But you know the winners, right?"

"Well, yeah. Everyone knows them." It was true. The media blitz for the few weeks after the Program made sure of that. Stephan tapped his chin as he thought.

"Last year, it was that psycho ginger guy with the boxcutter, wasn't it," he recalled. "And the year before... ah..."

"That big guy who collected ears from his kills. Nathan something. I remember him," said Joe with a shudder, taking his water-bottle from his bag. "And before that, it was Anna."

"Right. Anna," said Sami. "Before her, Michael with the hand-grenades, then it was the year when the whole class waited out the collars. Then it was Emily Nicholls, but she died of her injuries the day after. Analyse the winners. What have they got in common, and what does this tell us?"

Stephan and Joe considered the question. On the surface, there was not much in common between the past winners. Boys and girls both, insane gun-toting maniacs and unfortunate victims of circumstance, all manner of weapons used, all strategies, all styles of gameplay.

"Beats me," said Joe, taking a swig from his water-bottle. "Most of them are in mental institutions now?"

"Over the last six years, in every game, there has been either one winner or no winner," said Sami. "It's a simple significance test. Careful with that water, it's to last you two more days. One winner or no winner, and that's not just the Brit game. Japan, America... always the same. This distribution of data suggests that it's highly improbable that any given year would have, for example, three winners. What makes you think it'll be any different this year?"

"Wow," said Stephan. "That's so..."

"Pessimistic." said Joe, screwing the cap onto his bottle glumly. Stephan shook his head.

"I thought... you know, we'd storm the school, or steal a helicopter, or something. Hand it to the bastards who brought us here. Not just give up!"

"Can you pilot a helicopter? Or take out two hundred-odd elite soldiers with one six-shot revolver?" asked Sami.

"Huh," said Stephan. When Sami put it like that...

"I know..." said Joe, "but I wanted to believe... so... what _do _we do?"

"I want the right person to win," said Sami. "If we could pull that off, it'd be far more effective than trying to blow up the school or escape or anything like that. The best way to truly fuck them over."

"The right person?" said Stephan. "That means you, then? So why team up with us?"

"I don't think I'm such a good person," said Sami, flicking a torch on and shielding the beam with his hand. The pool of light fell directly on his map. "Hopefully, the person who should win will reveal themselves soon enough. All I know so far is that it's not the one with the machine gun, and not the one who killed Nina and Mahmoud. Maybe I'll never find them. Even if they're out there, could be that we won't come across them. Might not even be a person like that in our class."

"We're all going to die and there isn't one good person here to die with. Huh. You're such a gloomy bastard." said Stephan.

"Hey!" exclaimed Joe. "I'm the resident gloomy bastard."

"Maybe so." Sami conceded, then turned the torch beam to his face. He was smiling. "I'll still be keeping my eye out for helicopters with keys in the ignition, though."

"I can live with that," said Joe. "Knew you weren't ready to give up just yet, Ninja Master Sam."

"Well, giving up all hope has a very negative impact on your performance," said Sami. He put down the torch, then took the gun from his belt, flipped it round in his hand and handed it to Stephan, butt first. Stephan stared at him, not comprehending.

"Now I have a testable hypothesis that you're not playing," said Sami. "Before I was at about 7, give or take a few variables, but now I'm pretty sure we're under 5, and if you turn out to be trying to kill me, I'd have to undo a lot of working and that'd suck. So you may as well have your gun back. Watch yourself with it."

It was a show of trust if he'd ever seen one. Stephan took the gun. After hearing Sami's words, it felt different in his hand, no longer a burden.

-

01/05/2019 – 21:52 – DAY 1 of BR2019UK – H3

-

Alone.

Natalie Rankin was never alone.

She was loved. Beautiful and charismatic, she'd naturally risen to the top at school, had so many friends that she could afford to be generous. She was never afraid, and never alone. She never had to be.

Now, on the cold western shore of the island, she realised that so much of her great sunny personality that everyone adored was just a reflection of their love for her. Alone...

Alone, she was nothing.

The year before, an exchange student had joined the class. Francine Paul, child of diplomats, who had been in dozens of international schools, already a globetrotter by the age of fourteen, and an object of intense fascination for the students of 11AT. In the autumn, she decided to run for class representative to the student council, and for the first time, Natalie had a challenger. Francine's easy confidence (or perhaps her treacle curly hair and American accent) drew much attention, and it looked, for a while, like she might win.

The three weeks of election campaigning awoke in Natalie a side of her that had lain dormant until then. Under threat for the first time in her life, Natalie reacted. She discovered that, as well as being all-loving and good-hearted, she was also fiercely competitive, and she would never lie down and accept defeat. A bitching campaign against Francine spread from beyond her class to the whole year, and Natalie went chasing the votes of students she wouldn't normally have looked at twice.

Natalie Rankin was elected with a comfortable majority, and a few months later, Francine Paul's parents moved on – a fortunate move for Francine, given what later transpired. Perhaps she was watching the Program now, broadcast by satellite to some exotic locale, and counting her lucky stars.

Natalie hugged her knees and bit her fingers until they bled. _Not so pretty now, _she thought. _Everyone can see me on TV. Me, the one who got into their megaphones and tried to save everyone... not so brave now, am I? _

In her bag were hand grenades. She felt a little sick. That meant limbs torn off, bodies blown to pieces. Why couldn't they have given her a gun?

_Not so brave now..._

_No. Not so __**stupid**__. Two ways off the island, and only one of them doesn't involve a body bag._

The grenades would have to do. Other people were playing. Bethany Tupper, and Sophie Orr, of all people... girls she'd thought were shy and sweet, going through their classmates like hurdles on sports day.

Natalie too was beginning to see the finish line. They were there, standing between her and her goal, waiting to trip her, bring her down. Some of them, she knew, were secretly jealous of her. She'd seen those envious glances just on the edges of sight, the slightly lacklustre enthusiasm about her new coat or haircut... how the hell had she not noticed? Some of them had to be jealous...

_No. __**All **__of them._

She thought of home, her friends, her boyfriend (at university, suitably good-looking, old enough to be distinguished but too young to be seen as perverted). Her parents. Planned holidays. The future. Her life. She wanted to live more than anything. And what Natalie wanted... Natalie fought for.

_Play to win, _she thought, clenching her hands into fists, swiping away the tears. _It's the only way to live._

_No..._

_It's the only way I have __**ever **__lived._

-

At 22:00, as the last glimmer of light was vanishing from the sky and the island fell into deep darkness, something _different_ happened.

The problem was this. Night vision cameras were too expensive to waste on the Program island, being required by the military, so during the night, the viewers suffered from poor image quality. Spectacular shoot-outs sometimes went entirely unseen because of lack of adequate light.

The Program technicians had recognised this problem and, in the months leading up to Class 11AT's game, come up with a solution. Now, as the shadowy island slept its uneasy sleep, a circuit board was plugged in on the mainland...

...and there was light.

The first of the floodlights lit up on the north coast, almost immediately followed by another. The lighthouse, standing alone on its rocky promontory, gleamed like a white needle in the night. Its lone inhabitant rubbed his eyes and crept over to the windows, peering out at this strange bolt from the blue.

_Ah,_ he thought. _An innovation. There's one every year._

The lights came on one after another, spreading inland, illuminating the forests and the dead village with the cold white glare. On the beach, Natalie Rankin leapt to her feet as she was caught in the beam of two, transfixed with two shadows, a little dark shape amid the sudden brightness. Covering her eyes, nearly dazzled, she grabbed her bag and fled inland to the shelter of the trees.

Josh Bradshaw limped towards the glow, reaching out with a bloodied hand. For him, at least, it was a stroke of luck. No longer thinking of enemies, but only of Sophie, he knew that finding her would be so much easier with light. Following the ring of light ahead, he limped toward the west.

Will Dalton sat hunched over the water, contemplating his reflection in the stream. There was blood on his face. _Whose? _He couldn't even remember. He thought he looked determined, _successful, _but the boy who grinned back looked desperate and manic. Blood throbbed in his temples, and one of his eyes was twitching slightly, as it often did when he was over-tired. He looked at his own face and shuddered, plunging his hands into the water to disperse the image. Then, he pressed his cold wet hands to his cheeks, his eyes. _He just needed a break…_

The last floodlights to come on were those on the mountain, the furthest inland grid squares. Light fell on the bodies of Lauren Norris and James Lewis, of Paul Yates and Alex Green, on the lone microphone Dave had left dangling from the megaphone pole in a square that was now a danger zone. Light picked out the crumpled body of Abigail Dawson and glimmered on the shards of her collar which lay strewn in a pool of her blood. Light flooded down the valley to the quiet stream, which had its roots in the mountain, and flowed to the sea, just behind the harbour-master's house where Sophie and Shabina still hid, and waited.

Will flung his hands up to protect his eyes from the sudden onslaught of the light. _Where? How?_ Then, _get a grip, it's a Program innovation, they do this every ye-_

He stopped. Barely fifteen feet away, on the other side of the stream, there was a shape that wasn't part of the scenery. He recognised the cobalt blue of their school uniform, the whitish curly hair of a head bent forward to drink from cupped hands.

She looked up, startled, like a wild creature caught at the watering hole. Will stared. She stared back.

It was Bethany Tupper.

-

8 eliminated, 16 to go…


End file.
